


fidei defensor

by tavrincallas



Series: Saint Jude AUs [1]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, i would say yes, is this also a mafia au fic that no one asked for?, is this the priest fic we all need?, then it grew arms and legs, this started as fluff, which then became something else entirely?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 20:50:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17270912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tavrincallas/pseuds/tavrincallas
Summary: Jordan is a Catholic priest in New York City, and Adam is the long time friend he hasn't seen in forever. Jordan would've said that he's the saint and Adam's the sinner, but then maybe he's got this all backwards from the beginning.





	fidei defensor

**Author's Note:**

> Title is Latin for 'Defender of the Faith'. This is also my first Hendollana fic. 
> 
> Happy New Year, fellas.

He runs and runs.

The skies are bright and blue and the sun is in his eyes. Jordan could feel the soft clink of his dogtags trapped between his chest and his shirt as he jogs around the perimeter of his apartment block. He refuses to think that he’s hiding, not when he’s out in the open like this, in this neighbourhood where everyone knows him.

No, Jordan thinks. He’s hiding from himself.

His neck aches from the straps of heavy rucksack on his shoulder, the weight he’s carrying on his back. It’s his routine – every morning he would stuff bricks in his tattered rucksack and run for at least an hour, because it’s what he’s trained himself to do in the Marines. He doesn’t mind being drenched in sweat or the sweet suffering of muscle aches that will come later – it’s only one of the many reminders of his past, the one that he has actively tried to leave. He doesn’t admit that he misses it, but his new life is equally challenging – if not completely different.

One of the old ladies waves at him – she doesn’t bat an eye at his dishevelled state – he briefly wonders what Mrs Evans is doing this early in the morning, when he realizes that she’s probably on her way to her Tai Chi class on the other side of the park. A few strides further and he bumps into Sadio who winks at him and shouts, “Lookin’ good, Padre!” and grins. Jordan doesn’t stop running, but he acknowledges the other man with a tiny nod and an amused smile.

“See you at Mass this Sunday!” another loud, cheerful voice bellows, and Jordan breaks into a hearty chuckle despite himself. It was Bobby, one of Sadio’s mates from his football team. Jordan waves enthusiastically in return, exclaiming, “It’s a date, then!”

“It’s a date with God!” Bobby adds theatrically, before dragging Sadio away in a maniacal laughter.

 _Bless their hearts,_ Jordan thinks. 

Other folk watches this encounter with little interest, thinking that it’s another Thursday morning shenanigans in the Lower East Side. Jordan is acutely aware, however, that while they may have little care for his exchange with Sadio and Bobby, they never fail to take a second glance at his prosthetic leg. It’s his second year using the C-leg – for a higher cost it’s certainly more stable than his old prosthesis, and he prefers the bounce and swing of this new leg when he runs. Never mind that he has invested nearly his entire savings for a metal leg. It’s worth it.

He reaches the front door of his apartment and jogs up the stairs, not forgetting to throw a smile at Mrs Rosenbaum who is watering her plants at the stoop. “Good morning, Father,” she smiles back. She has always told him that if he hadn’t been a Catholic priest, she would have gladly let him marry her daughter.

Jordan unlocks his apartment door and near-throws his rucksack on the floor with a loud thump, groaning as he freed himself of the weight on his shoulders. It’s not much, but it’s still home. It’s certainly cosier than the unforgiving deserts of Fallujah. He’s got a roof over his head and a comfortable bed to sleep on. Actual hot chow instead of MREs. These are the circular thoughts that run in his mind each time he comes home. That he’s glad to be _here_ instead of _out there._

Life is funny like that sometimes.

 

* * *

 

After shower he gets rid of his tattered green USMC t-shirt and dumps it in the washer, before limping on his crutch to the living room. Jordan bends forward to fit his C-leg onto the special socks he’d had made for his stump. Satisfied that the slot has clicked into place, he leans back on his couch and turns on the TV. The news is telling him about last night’s murder of Tom Sullivan, a mob boss who had only been released from prison the day before. 

 _Freedom,_ Jordan thinks. Is Tom Sullivan finally free, then? To have been freed from prison after twenty-five years, only to get shot to death a day after?

The phone rings.

Detective James Milner is on TV now, his stern face unperturbed by microphones and blinding camera flashes. Jordan picks up the phone after the second ring. Sharon is on the end of the line, asking if Jordan would still be available for Sunday dinner because his sister, Natalie is visiting from Chicago. “Yes, _mom,_ I’ll make it,” Jordan replies. He turns the volume down on the telly just as Detective Milner starts a lengthy spiel about the rise of a new mob boss dubbed ‘Saint Jude’ by the cops, who has allegedly orchestrated the Tom Sullivan murder.

“Are you watching this?” Jordan asks in abject horror. “Why would anyone name a mob boss after a patron saint?” he scrunches his nose, before breaking into a resigned laughter. “What has the world come to, eh?”

Sharon laughs too, but it is a muted echo of Jordan’s mirth. From her voice, he could tell that she is not taking the news as light-heartedly as he has. There is something else playing on her mind, and no, it isn’t just the upcoming family dinner and the recent worries regarding Natalie’s marriage breakup. “Sharon, you okay?”

“Yes,” Sharon lies.

“Is it about the diner? They’re still tearing it down?”

“Forty years, Jordan,” Sharon says. “And just like that, they’re telling me to move out in the next three weeks. They’ll pay compensation, but is it worth it?”

 _‘Is it worth it?’_ seems to be the question of the day. It even merits becoming the question of Jordan’s life. The flickering images on telly are now showing images of Trump and the latest spews of his idiotic policies. News about Brexit scrolls blissfully at the bottom of the screen. Jordan grits his teeth and reaches for the remote to switch off the telly.

“What happens if you don’t move out?” Jordan asks. Exhaustion and dread suddenly engulfs his entire body. Glancing up at the clock, he realizes that he’s already late for his morning meeting with Father Klopp. He doesn’t hang up on Sharon. He couldn’t, not when she’s clearly in distress.

“They’ll still tear it down,” Sharon replies. Jordan could hear the dejection in Sharon’s voice. He’s known Sharon’s Diner even before she adopted him into her family— it was his sanctuary when he was a child. Sharon and her husband have been his salvation from the dank orphanage where he grew up. Sharon’s Diner was where he and Adam would sit down to have lunch and do homework after school, before returning to the confined spaces of their bedrooms. Sister Mary would often frown at them for coming late from school, but then they’d show her that they’d done their homework – and they would be spared from being flogged or locked in a cupboard.

Jordan wonders if Adz is doing okay, wherever he is. The last time Adam had sent Jordan a postcard to Sharon’s address, the little guy was in Bournemouth – all the way in England. A home Jordan once knew, he muses wistfully. That was a good few years ago, and there was no return address. It was kind enough of Adam to still remember him, though. _Dear Hendo,_ Adam had written, in a near-illegible scrawl. He was the only one to still ever address Jordan by that nickname. He thinks that Adam would be similarly appalled at this news, though. Sharon was as much a mother to Adam as she is to Jordan, even if she only manages to officially adopt one of them.

What would have happened if Sharon had adopted Adam instead of him, Jordan ponders. He looks down at his leg and lets out a heavy sigh. The church bells are ringing, signalling that Jordan should really hang up and go to work now. “Sharon, I’ll see you on Sunday, okay? Love you.”

Adjusting the plastic dog collar on his throat, Father Jordan Henderson dashes out of his apartment and hops onto his trusty bicycle.

 _It’s just another day at the parish,_ he thinks, whistling cavalierly as he rides off to work.

 

* * *

 

Jordan arrives at the front door of his parish only to find out that his meeting with Father Klopp has been cancelled. Surprisingly, it wasn’t because Jordan failed to turn up on time. He lurks outside Klopp’s office and could hear the older priest’s agitated voice down the phone, speaking to someone about money and charity and the God’s good will. Jordan narrows his eyes. Klopp has always been a calm, unruffled figure – he rarely raises his voice, even in anger.

Something feels off.

Jordan couldn’t see Klopp behind the door, but from the tone of Klopp’s voice, he sounds scared; threatened, like a wounded animal. It was out of character, even for Klopp. When the phone slams and the door suddenly jerks open, Jordan awkwardly manages a wide-eyed, thin-lipped smile. Father Klopp is a grey-haired, German priest in his early-50s, and has been at this parish for the last thirty years, as compared to Jordan’s two. They make a stark contrast – Klopp the charming, affable priest with a disarming smile, and Jordan the taciturn ex-Marine with a stoic disposition. Klopp often asked him why he’d decided to join the seminary after leaving the Marines. Jordan really didn’t have an answer for that except a practiced, straight-faced mumble about his blown-off leg in Iraq, God’s grace and the miracle that he’s still alive.

“Walk with me,” Klopp says, as he ushers Jordan down the corridor.

“What’s wrong?”

“Did you see the news this morning?” Klopp half-whispers.

“Which one?”

“Tom Sullivan, St Jude, the mob.”

Jordan blinks. “Yes, what about them?”

“Times are changing around here, Jordan,” Klopp halts, putting a gentle hand over Jordan’s arm. “It’s not going to be the same anymore. Not with the new kids running around New York. They’ve taken over Brighton Beach from the Russians, and we’re now smack right in the heart of Sully’s ol’ territory, which I know St Jude will want to reclaim.”

“What are you saying?” Jordan raises a quizzical brow. “How are _we_ connected to the mob?”

“All I’m saying, Jordan, is you’ve got to be careful,” Klopp tells him, voice dropping an octave lower than usual. “You’ve seen many things, the war abroad. But you’ve never seen anything like this,” Klopp warns gravely.

“Have faith, Jordan,” Klopp says, but the words sound hollow, as if he doesn’t believe them himself. And just like that, he leaves Jordan to his confessional box, where a line is already forming at the side of the church. Jordan quietly groans, watching Klopp’s dark, cassock-clad figure disappear down the centre aisle of the church, heading for the large, looming doors of the parish. He turns to face the altar, where the crucifix stares at him mutely, as if urging him to persevere without further questions.

_Have faith._

_Semper fidelis,_ Jordan thinks. How apt.

Jordan doesn’t see Father Klopp for the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

He leaves the church on his bike at 1800, before stopping at a bodega two blocks away for a can of soda. He flashes a smile at the gangly kid behind the counter – Trent, who relentlessly keeps trying to sell him beer every time Jordan stops by.

“Come on, Father. How come you never drink beer?” Trent inquires cheekily. “Surely you’re not like some rich snob who only drinks wine and champagne.”

“I have my reasons,” Jordan replies, trying not to think of Sharon’s husband and his death from liver failure. That’s enough to make Jordan a teetotaller, but he wouldn’t condemn Trent to that sob story. “Trent Alexander-Arnold—,” a female voice suddenly shrieks from one of the aisles of the store, “Quit asking Father Henderson questions like that. You should know better!”

“Sorry Mrs Lovren,” Trent replies sheepishly at the owner of the store, before handing Jordan the change.

“Gotta listen to the boss, eh?” Jordan winks conspiratorially. “Don’t forget to do your homework,” he tells Trent, before turning to leave the queue. His stride are cut short by a dark-haired man who stops him at the door, staring at him as if he is some kind of deity, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“ _Father_ Henderson?”

“Yes?”

“Jordan Brian Henderson?” the man exclaims, a shark-like grin now etched on his lips, all white teeth and bright eyes, despite the all-black clothing he is currently adorned in.

“ _Yes_ ,” Jordan nods, perplexed by the man’s overfamiliarity, ears pricking at the use of his middle name. “Do I know you?” Jordan asks cautiously.

“Hendo?” the man replies, clearly amused by a joke that Jordan hasn’t seemed to get. There’s something friendly and harmless in the unreserved joy on the man’s countenance. “It’s me—,” he says. “It’s Adz. La-Llama.”

“Llama?” Jordan queries, at first softly, in confusion. Then, it hits him. “ _Adz_?” his voice inadvertently rising an entire octave. “As in Adam Lallana?”  The man nods, trying to repress the urge to laugh. Jordan could not believe his eyes. Holding both of Adam’s shoulders in a firm grip, Jordan exclaims ecstatically, “You look different! I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you!” before pulling Adam into a bear hug.

“Eh, grew a beard, y’know,” Adam waves him off glibly and pats his back, as if it was no big deal. “You still look good, though,” Adam says as he pulls away, eyes glinting in the fluorescent light as he grins gregariously.

“Well, yes,” Jordan harrumphs, before looking down at his shabby corduroy jacket and shrugs. “Wrinkles everywhere, what else is new. You, on the other hand—,” he pauses and takes another look at Adam—, “you look— great!”

_Adam looks amazing._

“I like the whole hipster-beard thing you got going on,” Adam motions to his own jaw, all sharp and angular, and unlike how Jordan remembers Adam at all. Jordan automatically rubs his bristled jaw and thinks it’s due for a shave. Adam doesn’t want to talk about himself— this much he is aware, judging from Adam’s tendency to revert the attention back to Jordan. “And you’re – _wait,_ is that real now?” Adam asks incredulously— his eyes permanently fixated on Jordan’s dog collar. “Is that fucking real? I can’t believe my eyes. You’re a fucking priest?”

Jordan ultimately has to resort to grabbing Adam and shoves a hand over his mouth, just in case Mrs Lovren overhears him. “Yes, I’m an _effing_ priest, thank you very much. Haven’t you heard?”

“Fucking hell mate, and I thought my life had been a fuckin’ rollercoaster.”

Jordan couldn’t help but let out a hearty chuckle despite the inappropriateness. Adam may have looked different, but he still has that potty mouth on him.

 _It’s Adam alright,_ Jordan thinks fondly.

 

* * *

 

Six slices of pizza and three cans of Coke later, Adam is sprawled on Jordan’s sofa, burping as he shakes his head, contemplating Jordan’s career choice. “How did you end up being a priest from a Marine? My head can’t quite compute that.”

“I saw my friends die in front of me. When my Humvee was blown, and this happened—,” Jordan points to his left prosthetic leg, “Sharon thought my recovery was some sort of miracle. And I couldn’t contemplate going back and doing a desk job.”

“So you’d rather join the clergy? Being the soldier of God? Some born-again Christian?”

“You make it sound like it’s a bad thing,” Jordan reasons. “Look, Sharon’s religious, and I don’t want her to worry about me. I’m giving back to the community with every way that I can.”

“I’m not making fun of you. I guess I’m just a bit cynical.”

“Can’t be cynical if you’re working with kids, can you?” Jordan comments flippantly, making a dig at Adam’s job as a teacher in the Upper East Side. He raises the can of soda to his lips as he awaits Adam’s reaction.

“It’s a special needs school. Kids with autism, learning difficulties, mutism,” Adam explains. “Maybe I can’t really judge you. I didn’t expect my life to take this turn either. Maybe I’m giving back to the community with every way that I can, too.”

“What do you mean by that?” Jordan asks.

“I feel like I’ve been wasting my time, you know?” Adam tells him. “I feel that it’s actually time for me to do something tangible. Make a difference.”

There’s a deeper meaning to that, but Jordan isn’t turning this reunion into some sort of terrorist suspect interrogation situation. Instead, he questions Adam about where he has been since he left New York, but Adam continues to be evasive. “Scotland, High school, college, back to England, then I just— travelled around the world,” he tells Jordan, but doesn’t elaborate.

 _He’s hiding something,_ Jordan thinks. _But I’m not going to push him._

“Why didn’t you come find us? Find Sharon?” Jordan asks instead. “You’ve been here six months and you haven’t even paid a visit to the diner. She’s going to be so ecstatic when she finds out that you’re back in town.”

“I’ve got so much going on, mate,” Adam says as he scratches the back of his head, genuinely apologetic. “I just—,” he rubs his eyes tiredly, “—have so many things to deal with.”

“Really?” Jordan asks pointedly. “After that random postcard from Bournemouth, of all the fucking places?”

“I’m sorry.”

Jordan draws a sharp breath. There’s no point being coy. He has to ask.

“Are you in trouble, Adam?”

“No,” Adam replies, sharply and firmly. Jordan could take a hint.

“Listen,” Jordan caves in, “Come to dinner. Sunday,” he implores. “Sharon will be pleased. Natalie will be there too. It’ll cheer them up, especially with the stuff that has been going on.”

Adam’s stance softens. “What _has_ been going on?” he inquires quizzically.

“You’ll hear from them,” Jordan shrugs. “It’s not my prerogative to tell. What were you doing in Bournemouth, anyway?” he asks instead, referencing Adam’s postcard from forever ago.

Adam pauses, cogs moving, thinking. Blinks twice before putting his soda can on the table. “Vacation. It’s fucking cool, right? The coastline is to die for,” he says. “But nothing will ever beat _home._ ”

“But England _was_ home, wasn’t it?” Jordan asks.

“It’s not quite home anymore, is it?” Adam retorts.

Jordan blurts out the next question without even thinking. “Do you mean that home, is actually here?”

Adam initially nods, but shrugs hesitantly afterwards. He lifts his gaze to stare at Jordan for longer than what feels necessary. Jordan doesn’t even realize that he has been holding his breath. Adam is too close, too far, consuming Jordan’s entire atmosphere.

“ _Here_ ,” Adam affirms, still holding Jordan’s gaze with his piercing brown eyes.

When Jordan finally breathes, it feels like a lease of new life.

 

* * *

 

Mass still brings about plenty of parishioners despite the heavy rain that hasn’t subsided since Saturday evening. After communion and the endless chanting of “The Body of Christ”, Jordan is all too ready for warm grub and decent company.

Jordan has agreed to meet Adam outside Sharon’s new apartment in Brooklyn, umbrella in hand. “I brought peach tarts,” Adam says, as he steps out of the yellow cab. He immediately ducks underneath Jordan’s umbrella for shelter, meeting him eye-to-eye. Jordan has to take a step back in surprise – by both Adam’s sudden movement and the enthusiasm he’s showing, as Adam holds out a food container in one hand. In Adam’s other hand is a bouquet of bright yellow tulips, which he nearly shoves into Jordan’s face. Its petals fall to the wet ground, wilting with each drop of rain.

“Adam, are you sure you’ve not mistaken this for a date?”

“Nah, maybe I am trying to woo you.”

Jordan is stunned. Adam stares up at him confusedly, before breaking into a huge laughter and punches Jordan in the shoulder. “Come on, Mr God Squad. Are you going to keep standing here in the rain or what?”

 

* * *

 

The tears in Sharon’s eyes well up faster than Jordan could say, “Here’s Adam,” after she opens the door to welcome them. Natalie shoots Jordan a look of disbelief and amusement as Sharon pulls Adam into a hug, showering him with kisses all over his face.

“You’re so skinny,” Sharon exclaims. “Have they not fed you well?” she asks, as she tries to rub off the lipstick smear on Adam’s cheek.

“No, I needed to get in shape anyway,” Adam replies. “Be more like Hendo here,” he points to Jordan. He then approaches Natalie to give her a hug, causing her to melt into his arms. Natalie and Jordan briefly share a knowing gaze as she returns the sisterly embrace— Natalie is clearly still amazed at how different—and yet how unchanged Adam still is, after all these years. “You seriously have competition in the Most Eligible Bachelor category, Jordan,” Natalie says. Jordan has to bite the insides of his cheek to stop smiling, as Natalie refuses to let Adam go.

“Nuh-uh, I’m off the market. Married to God, remember?” Jordan replies in jest. “Also, if you don’t let go of Adam now he might file a suit for sexual harassment.”

Natalie eventually pulls away from Adam, albeit reluctantly. “Watch it, young man,” she says, and gives Jordan a playful slap.

“Shall we set the dinner table?” Sharon asks as she arranges Adam’s tulips in a vase. Natalie, Adam and Jordan offer to give her a hand, but she insists that Jordan stays in the living room to entertain Adam while dinner is being served.

“Sharon hasn’t aged a day,” Adam sidles up to Jordan, his deep drawl sending unexpected shivers down Jordan’s spine. “And Natalie is as beautiful as ever.”

“Yeah, well,” Jordan sighs. “Unfortunately her husband is too blind to see that. “

 

* * *

 

Over the course of dinner, Adam learns more about Sharon’s difficulties. The proposed redevelopment plan and gentrification process in the area would mean tearing down the diner and the buildings surrounding it. “But spending time at the diner after school – with Jordan – that’s the best part of my childhood!” Adam exclaims, the frown lines on his forehead deepening in fury.

“People are holding protests but they’re going ahead with it anyway,” Natalie says. “It’s a lost cause.”

 “I’ve got until the end of the month the sign the agreement,” Sharon says morosely, shaking her head.

“Don’t do it,” Adam snaps, his rage quietly bubbling away under the deceptively calm surface. 

Sharon reaches over to hold Adam’s hand. “That’s very kind of you, but I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”

Jordan studies this interaction intently— every curl of Adam’s lips, every twitch of his eyelids. This is what he’s been trained to do— to observe everything and admire _nothing._ He witnesses how the raw tempest in Adam’s eyes seems to fade with every brush of Sharon’s thumb, against the back of his hand. A maternal touch, something that Adam probably hasn’t experienced in a long time. There’s something equally vulnerable and dangerous about Adam— seeing him like this, within the safe illusion of being with family. Of being welcomed, of being loved.

Their time at St Peter’s Home for Boys hasn’t been the most pleasant, but Sharon and Natalie changed all that for Jordan. Survivor’s guilt still haunts him, even until now. Not just about leaving Stevie behind in Iraq, but also about leaving Adam in that harsh, loveless institution. Stevie’s gone now. And Adam did leave the orphanage eventually, to move to Scotland with the Robertson family. Adam’s back in New York now, safe and sound.

That’s all that matters, right?

“Hey, Jordan. Where did you go?” Natalie asks, her voice snapping him out of his reverie.

“Sorry,” Jordan says, “What?”

“We were just talking about Mikey,” Sharon explains.

Mikey. Natalie’s cheating husband. “Soon to be ex-husband,” Natalie corrects Sharon. Adam is equally unimpressed with the sordid details of the affair— about how Mikey has been keeping a mistress behind her back. His nose scrunches up as he spares a quick glance at Jordan, expressing his repugnance at how Natalie has been treated. “We’ve been separated for three months now. I’m just finalizing a few things in Chicago, and then I’m coming back here for good,” she says.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Adam proffers. “I didn’t even get to go to your wedding, and now the marriage has ended,” he contemplates ruefully.

“Well, at least we don’t have any kids to fight over. It’d be more painful if we did,” Natalie surmises.

A grim silence hangs over the table, before Sharon stands up and claps her hands together. “Right, I’m going to get dessert, including Adam’s lovely peach tarts. Did you make it yourself?”

The tension in the room quickly dissipates with the sound of Sharon’s soothing voice. 

“Yes indeed Ma’am,” Adam blushes. “I thought I’d make some, considering it’s Jordan’s favourite.”

Jordan glances sharply at Adam. He doesn’t look back.

“Tell us more about you, then, Adam Lallana,” Natalie leans back in her chair, giving him a shrewd look. “A young handsome thing like you, surely you must have someone?”

Jordan watches this exchange with interest. He doesn’t miss the flush creeping up Adam’s neck, how his ears turn pink at Natalie’s unabashed query. “Uh, that is—,” Adam stammers, before making the mistake of catching Jordan’s burning gaze on him. Adam looks away sheepishly again. “I’m married to my job,” he says, earning a deep chuckle from Jordan. “Oh please, only I’m allowed to say that,” Jordan snickers.

Adam kicks his foot under the table in retaliation. It only makes Jordan laugh harder.

“No, I love my job,” Adam explains, after finally managing to catch his breath. “It’s gratifying.”

“It’s admirable,” Sharon comments, as she returns from the kitchen. “Working with special needs kids.”

“Not as admirable as my friend here,” Adam retorts wittily, his head indicating towards Jordan.

“Stop,” Jordan warns in faux fury. “You’re just picking on me now,” he says, with a wide smile plastered on his face. He hasn’t felt this happy in a long time.

“Come on, Hendo. It’s not every day that I get to tease you.”

Judging from Adam’s expression, Jordan could say for certain that he feels the same way, too.

 

* * *

 

“I missed that,” Adam says.

“Surely the Robertsons have Sunday family dinners too?” Jordan says, as they step out into the wet pavement, smelling piss and rain and the cold air of the city hitting their faces.

“They’re different,” Adam says. “Square sausages? That was weird. Nothing beats Sharon’s Sunday roast, though,” he beams while looking down at his shoes. Suddenly Adam finds his laces are more interesting than the skies, the lights or Jordan’s face. Kicking a pebble, he then shoves his hands down his jeans’ pockets and simply says, “Well.”

“Well?”

“This has been fun,” Adam remarks. “It’s been good to see you again, Jordan. I gotta run. Early start tomorrow,” he says. Adam is only a few inches shorter than Jordan, but already he is folding himself, slouching as if he wants to be smaller. Jordan feels compelled to reach out and ruffle Adam’s hair, so he does. Startled, Adam looks up at Jordan with a glint in his eyes.

“Hey, Adz,” Jordan says. “Don’t be a stranger.” Adam’s worried expression softens considerably, his thin lips curving into a hint of a smile. “You know you’re still my friend, right?” Jordan teases.

The look Adam throws at Jordan is soft, innocent— _secretive_. “No, Father. I won’t be,” he hums, before lifting his head up suddenly— a sharp movement which causes Jordan to jolt. “Wait. Did you mean it?” Adam asks.

“About what?”

“The friend bit?”

Jordan snickers softly, before pulling his hand away from Adam’s head. “Yes, you’re my friend. In fact, you’re my _best_ friend, and now that you’ve come back, I couldn’t ask for more,” he tells Adam— because it’s the truth.

Adam is jittery on his feet, beaming from ear to ear. It’s hard not to notice— not when Jordan thinks that Adam is radiating warmth and glow like sunshine, despite the evening chill. Adam’s toes twitch a victory dance when he couldn’t show his joy outright, but Jordan knows that Adam is _happy._ He thinks his heart could easily soar from just watching how Adam’s eyes widen in incredulity, in shock, in joy.

“Was that hard to say?” Adam asks expectantly.

“Not at all, Adam.”

“Thanks,” Adam says, as he tries to suppress a wider smile. He fails utterly.

Adam disappears through the night like a phantom, leaving Jordan alone— with a tattered umbrella and the fragile promise of a renewed friendship.

It is times like these that made Jordan wonder if Adam ever has someone he could call friend at all, in the time he’s been away. Or were they just colleagues, acquaintances, passers-by?

The only person Adam ever speaks about with fondness was Sharon – but even then, it is out of reverence, respect, maternal. Jordan idly wonders if he’s ever loved anyone else.

If he has ever loved anyone at all.

 

* * *

 

Jordan makes it a point to try and have lunch with Adam every day at Central Park– sometimes it is Adam who waits for him outside his parish, and sometimes it is Jordan who waits for Adam outside his school. Everything is as it should be – ordinary and humdrum. Sitting in the park eating froyos as they watch people wander past, as if they’re eleven again, playing hooky.

“How come I don’t see you at Church?” Jordan probes, after swallowing a spoonful of peanut butter and jelly froyo.

Adam nearly chokes on his froyo. “I don’t subscribe to Christianity, Jordan. Let alone Catholicism,” he scoffs, before adjusting his sitting position on the bench so that his entire body faces Jordan. “Are you trying to convert me? You some sort of missionary now?”

“Chill, mate,” Jordan says, holding up a hand, with a plastic spoon still between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m just asking.”

“We were raised Presbyterian in the Robertson household,” Adam explains. “Church of Scotland and all that.”

“And?”

Adam shrugs. “I’m a heathen, I suppose. Always has been. Remember Sister Mary chasing after us with a broom? I was the worst,” he reminisces, closing his eyes against the sudden sun rays blinding his vision. He opens them again when he realizes that Jordan has blocked the light by holding up his arm. “That better?” Jordan asks, before shifting his position and sits directly opposite Adam, acting as a shield against the sun rays. Shadowed by Jordan’s silhouette, Adam asks, “Am I doomed, Father?”

“Stop,” Jordan says. “At least eat your froyo properly, you heathen,” he jokes, before lifting a thumb to wipe the corner of Adam’s mouth. Adam visibly freezes and turns away from Jordan.

“That’s Captain Hendo for you,” Adam says, without looking at Jordan. “Always looking after me like you’re some kind of big brother, or something.”

“That includes getting hit by Sister Mary’s broom for you,” Jordan reminds him.

“Or wrecking the hell out of Brad Quayle when he called me a faggot?”

“He deserved it,” Jordan declares astutely. “And he didn’t just call you a faggot— he called you all sorts of spiel, sprayed your locker and flushed your books down the toilet, among other things. Someone had to stand up to him. It’s basic human decency.”

“I don’t need reminding, Jordan,” Adam sighs, looking pained. “What makes this even more fucked up is that you’re still younger than me. I’m the one who’s supposed to be looking after you.”

“Age is just a number.”

Adam takes another spoonful of his cherry-flavoured froyo and looks ahead contemplatively, eventually setting his sight on an elderly woman walking her Akita. “Natalie told me that you went to college. Became a Politics major, and then, what? You went to Officer Candidates School and joined the Marines?” he asks. “I thought I knew you but even that’s just too random. And now this whole priest-gig? My mind is blown.”

“Ethics, Politics and Economy, if you want to be pedantic about it,” Jordan corrects Adam. “I was too idealistic. Still am, maybe. I wanted to change the world.”

“So, Mr Jordan Henderson,” Adam alters his voice tone in a bad imitation of a Fox news anchor, “Have you succeeded?”

“Ask me again in ten years,” Jordan scoffs derisively.

Adam chuckles, before pretending to blow raspberries. “So how does this work?”

“What works?” Jordan asks, confused.

Adam bites his lower lip and puts his froyo cup aside. “Natalie told me that you had a fiancé. Rebecca? Then you guys broke up while you were in Iraq.”

“Is there anything that she doesn’t tell you?” Jordan asks, alarmed.

“No, but hear me out,” Adam reaches over and touches his knee, whispering conspiratorially. “So you don’t—,” he falters, “—now? Ever?”

Jordan snorts. “Are we seriously having the sex talk right now? Seriously?”

“Yeah, _seriously_ ,” Adam insists. “Look, I’m not blind. You ain’t, either. People look at you like they want to eat you. On our way here, I’ve seen five girls and two guys checking you out.”

“ _Only_ five girls and two guys?” Jordan jokes, but the prickly heat under his collar is beginning to make him uncomfortable. He is all too sure that Adam could see how Jordan is transforming into a human beet root right now.

“Come on, Jordan. Especially when they know you’re a priest. You’re like, this unattainable man on a pedestal. Literally. On. A. Pedestal,” he adds, purposefully ignoring Jordan’s ‘it’s a pulpit’ comment. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Abstinence. Celibacy. All that— _jazz._ ”

“All that jazz?” Jordan repeats Adam’s phrase, bemused. “It’s called sublimation, Adam. I’m channelling all this energy to do something better,” he explains. _“Hopefully,”_ Jordan shrugs and manages a wry smile. “I don’t miss it anyway,” he says, expecting Adam to respond with something outrageous. But Adam continues to stare at him like he’s some kind of a malfunctioning anomaly, and doesn’t speak. Their froyos have melted in the paper cups, and Jordan moves to lick some of the peanut butter that has spilled onto his thumb. He notices Adam’s gaze flicker, before tending to his own froyo cup, nearly forgotten in the sun.

“What’s wrong, Adz?” Jordan asks.

“Nah,” Adam shakes his head forlornly. “I didn’t expect this, is all.”

“You didn’t expect me becoming a priest?”

“No,” Adam smiles, but he seems sad. “No, Hendo. I didn’t expect _you._ ”

He doesn’t elaborate, and Jordan doesn’t press for answers.

It’s probably better this way.

 

* * *

 

Jordan doesn’t hear from Adam the next day, or the next, or the next. Despite Adam’s sudden radio silence, Jordan finds out from Sharon that her diner is saved from demolition. An unknown company has bought the piece of land, subsequently stopping the previous plan of tearing down the buildings for redevelopment. One week later, Natalie phones excitedly from Chicago, saying that Mikey and his mistress have been arrested for embezzlement and money laundering.

Sharon even wondered if an angel has been sent to bless them.

“Hmm, I’m not quite sure about that,” Jordan has said over the phone this morning, before cycling to his parish. He has checked his phone again – his messages to Adam have been ticked _unread_. Jordan rings Adam on his cell, but it only reaches his voicemail.

It is only at 1137 that he finally receives a reply – “Sorry,” Adam has texted. “Have been very busy. Let me make it up to you. Lunch? 1.30 pm, same place? I’ll buy.”

“Sure,” Jordan texts back.

He waits at their usual spot, but there is no sign of Adam anywhere. Twenty minutes passed, and Jordan starts to worry. He rings Adam again, but there is no answer. Jordan grits his teeth and decides to cycle to Adam’s school, where he speaks to one of the teachers. “I haven’t seen him since mid-morning,” she tells him apologetically. Another teacher informs Jordan that Adam has gone out to meet a friend for lunch.

 _I am the friend,_ Jordan wants to say, but decides not to.

His big brother senses are kicking in again, he thinks, as he runs a hand in his hair, going through a mental list of places where Adam may be. “Will you let me know when he turns up—,” he says, peering at the teacher’s nametag, “Wendy?”

“And you are…?”

Jordan gives her the most dashing smile he could muster, and lowers the zip of his corduroy jacket to reveal his dog collar. “Father Jordan Henderson,” he tells her.

“Oh.”

 

* * *

 

It isn’t until he cycles past Mrs Lovren’s bodega that he realizes what has happened.

The area has been cordoned off by police tapes. Police and ambulance sirens are blaring loudly as if they warring against each other. In the midst of the crowd he could see Mrs Lovren being wheeled out into an ambulance, while Trent is being tended to by a paramedic, wrapped in a shock blanket.

Jordan pushes through the murmuring crowd to speak to the beat cop guarding the police line. “What’s happening here?”

“The mob,” the cop says, appearing bored and aloof, before telling the journalists behind Jordan to back off. “I have sources telling me that St Jude’s second-in-command has been shot dead, is that right?” one of the journalists asks.

“No comment.”

“The Russian mob is now on the trail for an escaped witness of the shooting?” the journalist persists.

“No comment,” the cop says, looking annoyed.

Jordan turns to face the journalist. “What do you mean, escaped witness?”

“Rumour has it that there is a witness on the run, and the Russian gang is scrambling to find him before the Saint Jude gang does. I don’t know why,” she replies. “This is what we’re here to find out.”

Jordan shudders. The journalist’s red lipstick is suddenly too bright, too violent, reminding him of blood and death and pestilence.

_What the fuck have you got yourself into, Adam?_

 

* * *

 

Jordan doesn’t sleep at all that night.

He doesn’t even bother going out for his morning run. He sits slumped on his sofa, watching the rolling news report around the shooting. At least Mrs Lovren and Trent are safe, hopefully under police protection. Sharon has heard of the news, but has little care for it – Jordan knows she would snap if the cops ever names Adam as the witness that they’re after. Detective Milner continues to give vague answers when he was asked about it during the press conference. 

When he cycles to his parish, Jordan doesn’t even whistle.

What greets him at the stoop of the parish is a familiar, but unwanted face.

“Detective Milner,” Jordan narrows his eyes warily. Standing behind the detective is a shorter, wirier man wearing a leather jacket at least two sizes bigger than him, who is intently scrutinizing Jordan.

“You recognize me, Father Henderson,” Milner replies. He flashes his first-grade NYPD Metropolitan Police detective badge anyway, as a courtesy. “This is Detective Robert Charleston,” he introduces his partner, who tilts up his head to acknowledge Jordan. “Homicide.”

Jordan nods. Detective Charleston looks familiar too, although he often fades in the background of Milner’s interviews. His height reminds Jordan of Adam, although Charleston appears much more aloof and cold in his attitude than Adam. Jordan’s gaze flickers towards the gun in his holster.

Force of habit.

“It seems like you’re the only face I see on TV these days, Detective. What gives?”

“Adam Lallana,” Milner replies, without further elaboration.

 “Yes?” Jordan asks, feigning ignorance.

“He’s been missing since yesterday. His colleagues at the school where Mr Lallana teaches say that you have been asking for him.”

“We were meant to go out for lunch.”

“What is your relationship with him, Father?” Charleston interjects. Strong Deep Southern accent, probably too forced. South Carolina somewhere, Jordan thinks. Maybe.

Jordan tilts his head towards Charleston. “He’s my friend.”

“Uh-huh,” Charleston nods pessimistically.

Milner clears his throat. “Would you care to give a statement at the station, Father?”

Just as Jordan is about to give some semblance of an acid reply, Klopp appears at the parish door. “What’s going on here?”

“Police matter, Father,” Milner says.

Klopp looks genuinely concerned. “Jordan?”

“It’s fine, gaffer,” Jordan reassures Klopp. “Won’t take long.”

 

* * *

 

Jordan hasn’t been in one of these interrogation rooms in a long time. It unsettles him, despite his training. He still manages to keep a stoical expression to throw the detectives off-guard. He’s done nothing wrong – no reason for him to be fearful. Jordan worries for Adam, though, wherever he may be.

_Please, God, let him be safe. Please let him live. Please save him._

He knows now that Adam had been at the bodega when the shootings happened. The Russian mob had burst into Mrs Lovren’s humble little shop and fired bullets into one of her customer’s chest. The victim turns out to be Daniel ‘Studge’ Sturridge, the second-in-command of NYPD’s most wanted mob boss. The tragedy is that no one—including the Russians and the cops— know how St Jude looks like, or if he even exists. Everything that they know about him has been based on CI’s intel; all word of mouth and no concrete evidence. They’ve never been able to capture St Jude’s top associates, and when Studge comes along, he is served to them on a cold slab.

What is certain, though, is that Studge has appeared to tug at Adam’s sleeve moments before his death, as they both lie on the ground, finding cover from the Russians’ spray of bullets. What is certain, though, is that Studge has appeared to whisper something into Adam’s ear – important information, perhaps? It was all captured on CCTV – the one which has been played for Jordan, as if urging him to jog the memories that he doesn’t have. According to statements by Mrs Lovren, aged 56, and Mr Trent Alexander-Arnold, aged 20; Adam fled the scene after making sure that they were safe, before the cops and paramedics arrive.

He has not been seen since.

 

* * *

 

Jordan smiles at his own reflection on the two-way mirror, knowing perfectly well that Detectives Milner and Charleston are on the other side, studying him. He is sure that they would have pulled out his military records by now, and will be dissatisfied by the amounts of redacted information in the files that are already classified. On the flip side, it will make them all the more suspicious.

Let them dig for a bit, Jordan ponders. He knows for himself that he has never been connected to the mob, if that’s the angle they’re going for. And Adam was only at Mrs Lovren’s bodega at the wrong place, at the wrong time. Victims of circumstance.

Milner enters the room and slaps down a thin manila file containing his military records on the metal table. Jordan is surprised that Milner could get his hands on them at all.

“Aren’t you supposed to be looking for him, Detective?” Jordan asks the stone-faced cop in front of him.

“I’m the one asking questions here, Father. Or should I call you—,” he leafs through the pages of the file, “Captain Jordan Henderson of the 1st Recon? You guys are like, the Navy SEALS of the Marines, right?”

“My time in the Marines has nothing to do with Adam’s disappearance.”

“Jordan Brian Henderson—,” Milner ignores him and proceeds to read aloud from the file, “—born 17 June 1990 to unknown parents. Adopted aged 13 from the St Peter’s Home for Boys.” He scans the page further down and mumbles to himself, until he reads aloud again. “Graduated from Brown with an EPE major, before serving with the Marines in East Timor and Iraq. Lost a leg,” he tuts. “Pretty severe injuries you had back then, Captain.”

“It’s a miracle that I’m still alive when everyone else died from that IED, Detective,” Jordan hisses.

“Of course. Which was why you decided to leave the Marines with the rank of Captain and joined the seminary. Ordained as a priest in the Archdiocese of New York,” Milner feigns amazement. “Oh, and look. You’re also a football coach in your spare time.”

“Is there any point to you summarizing my entire life to my face when Adam is still out there?” Jordan asks, calmly and evenly, with a polite smile on his lips.

“How long have you known Adam, Captain?”

“All my life,” Jordan says, struggling to stop himself from snarling. “And please don’t call me Captain, Detective.”

“How about Daniel Sturridge?”

“This is the first time I’ve heard of him.”

The exchange goes back and forth in circles, with Milner and Charleston trying to form a flimsy connection between Jordan and the Russian mafia. They all lead to dead ends. His alibi checks out because he has nothing to hide. Meanwhile, with every second that Milner wastes holding him here, the chances of Adam being found dead exponentially increases.

“Why aren’t you talking to the Russians? Aren’t they the ones looking for Adam? And how about this Saint Jude fella? Why would Sturridge talk to Adam before he died?” Jordan asks, before the realization hits him. “You have no clue who Saint Jude is, and you have no clue what Sturridge said to Adam,” he confronts Milner. “You’re in the dark just like everyone else and you’re chasing all the red herrings,” Jordan says, eyes widening in astonishment. 

Milner’s lips twitch uncomfortably. “How much do you think you know your friend, Father?”

“I know enough,” Jordan snaps. “Are we done?”

Milner keeps mum, before holding out the door for Jordan to leave. “You can go now, Father.” Jordan’s gaze flicker to the Eagle, Globe and Anchor tattoo on Milner’s arm, half-hidden by his rolled-up sleeve.

“Semper Fi, Captain,” Milner says, with a knowing look.

Jordan only manages a wry chuckle as he walks into the busy bullpen of 10th Precinct. Halfway down the corridor before the exit, Charleston stops him and holds up a police business card with his name on it. “If you hear anything from your friend, give me a ring.” Jordan plucks the card from between Charleston’s fingers and nods courteously.

“I’ll think about it, Detective.”

 

* * *

 

He returns to the parish in the evening, and sits at the furthest pew from the altar. Jordan watches silently as the last elderly man stands up from his kneeling position at the altar, and makes his way towards the church exit. “Good night, Kenny,” Jordan greets the man.

“Good night, Father.”

Jordan clutches the wooden pew in front of him and nods in acknowledgment; listening for Kenny’s last shuffling steps and the creak of the mahogany doors closing. The smell of burning incense is strong within the church walls. Past the shadows and the candlelight, he could see Klopp’s silhouette as the older priest skulks towards Jordan.

He grips the pew harder. Jordan’s angry—at Klopp, at St Jude, at Adam, at God. He wants to scream, _God, why are you tormenting me_ – but he doesn’t. He reins it in, patience, like every good Christian should.

“Do you know him?” Jordan asks as soon as Klopp takes a seat beside him on the pew.

 “Who?” Klopp asks, voice strained from exhaustion.

“Saint Jude,” Jordan curtly replies without even looking at Klopp. He fixes his gaze at the giant crucifix at the altar, rosary beads between his fingers. “Who is he, Klopp?”

There is no point of hiding the truth when Klopp clearly knows something. He has been tetchy since Tom Sullivan’s death, and visibly shudders at the mere mention of St Jude’s name. Klopp remains hesitant, but eventually gives up after Jordan shoots him down with an accusatory glare.

“He’s Sully’s illegitimate son,” Klopp confesses.

Jordan draws a sharp breath. “Saint Jude— is Tom Sullivan’s son?” 

Klopp nods. “Tom was the head of the Irish mob boss in New York. Jude’s mother was young. Pretty. But Tom got tired of her, so he got her murdered. So when he got out of jail, guess who Jude’s targeting for revenge?”

“That’s why he killed his father,” Jordan infers. “Oedipus complex at its finest.”

“I’ve never met Jude,” Klopp says. Jordan rolls his eyes incredulously. Is there anyone who knows who St Jude really is? “But I know that he’s vengeful, and he’s reclaiming what he thinks he’s lost,” Klopp continues.

“Well, now I’ve lost the same good friend for the second time in my life,” Jordan’s grip on the wooden pew tightens, “—so he should be wary of my own vengeful wrath.”

“I know you’re angry—and confused—,” Klopp begins, before Jordan interjects sharply. “Where is he, Klopp? I’m _this_ close to tracking down the son of a bitch myself.”

“I don’t know. He never shows his face. And _this—_ ,” Klopp tries to calm Jordan, “—this isn’t the path you want to take.”

“Too late, Klopp. I’m already on the warpath.”

He is about to leave the parish before he senses that something is wrong – unfamiliar faces hovering around the streets outside the church. Jordan knows a thug when he sees one, and there are at least five of them lurking around the perimeter of the parish. Somehow the Russian mob has made the connection between Adam and Jordan.

“Take care of yourself, gaffer. Go about your business as normal,” he says. “Haul ass after I leave here, understand?”

“What do you mean?”

“And don’t do anything stupid,” Jordan tells Klopp.

“Isn’t it me who’s supposed to say that to you?” Klopp’s voice rises in panic.

Jordan shrugs unrepentantly and leaves the parish through the backdoor. The Russian thugs seem completely unaware that he has left the building – or maybe Jordan has this all backwards. Maybe it isn’t him they’re after in the first place.

Nevertheless, he opts for a shortcut back to his apartment and reaches for his worn Marine duffel bag, pulling out a Glock he hasn’t used in years from its bottom. He cocks and uncocks the gun before slipping it behind his back, held in place by the waistband of his trousers, hidden by his corduroy jacket. He takes off the white plastic from his collar and shoves it into his back pocket. On the way back to the church, he picks up a burner phone, just in case, and dials Detective Charleston’s number from the card he gave him.

“Hello?”

“You gave me this number.”

“Father Henderson?”

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but there are Russian eyes on my turf. You want to tell me why? Or if the cops are going to deal with it?” Jordan asks tersely, before hanging up.

By the time he reaches the parish, there are two thugs guarding the main door. Jordan enters through the emergency exit and hides in the shadows, moving silently as not to get heard or seen. He hears them even before he manages to clap eyes on them. He barely could make out what they were saying, and neither could he speak Russian, but he understands enough to know that they have found what they were looking for.

Tiptoeing quietly, Jordan sneaks up to the first thug and chokes him in a headlock, before pressing the muzzle of his Glock at the man’s throat. Turning to face the other thug, Jordan finds himself locking gazes with Adam at the opposite end of the balustrade, with a gun pointed to his head. Adam’s hands are ziptied, mouth taped – and his eyes widen when he finally sees Jordan. His face is bruised, his light blue hoodie stained with crusted blood—Adam looks like he’s been through hell. The thug who is holding Adam doesn’t stand a chance – Jordan manages to shoot his kneecaps before he could put a bullet through Adam’s brains, falling to the ground with a pained groan. He tries to shoot Jordan, but Adam kicks his hand and the gun misfires, with the bullet hitting his comrade instead.

Jordan pulls a Swiss knife from his back pocket and cuts through Adam’s ziptie, before pulling the tape off Adam’s face. “Don’t say anything. We gotta run,” Jordan says gruffly. Just as they try to dash for the back door, three more thugs appear and starts shooting at them. Jordan provides enough covering fire for Adam to escape, but not before one of them manages to put a bullet through Adam’s left torso. “I’m hit,” Adam groans, looking pale as he struggles to move. Jordan puts one of Adam’s arms around his shoulder and starts dragging him through the hot summer night, lurking through the shadows. “Hang in there buddy,” Jordan exhales, as they hide in corners of streets and alleyways, avoiding discovery by the Russians. “How many are there and why are they after you?”

Adam only manages a weak shake of his head, before Jordan takes his hand and tugs him along again. “You gotta keep pressure on the wound – you’re going to bleed out.”

“Is this how I’m going to die? Running through the streets of East Village with my best friend?”

“Quit talking pish,” Jordan says with a clipped tone, before he sees a light illuminating a sign which says _‘Harley and Sons, Funeral Directors.’_ Hearing footsteps behind them, Jordan quickly breaks into the property via the back door. He pulls his burner phone and starts to dial 911, but Adam stops him. “Please. No cops.”

“Adam—,” Jordan warns, “—you need medical attention.”

“No, please.”

“I can’t let you die!”

Catching for breath, Jordan crouches and briefly checks on Adam’s wound. Adam merely leans back against the wall and slides to the ground, as if resigned to his fate. “They won’t find us in here – at least not for at least half-an-hour before they figure it out,” Jordan says. “Let’s patch you up, Adz. I don’t have painkillers on me so you’ll have to bear it, okay?”

Adam has lost enough blood to collapse on the floor as soon as they reach the embalming room. Jordan struggles to get him up on the table – it’s been too long since he has done this, in the field,  years ago. “I don’t think they’ve hit any vital organs, so you’re okay,” he reassures Adam. Pulling the bloodied hoodie off, Jordan tells him to lie down and unbuttons Adam’s shirt, before searching for equipment to stitch him up.

“What were you doing in my parish, Adam? Why didn’t you go to the cops?” Jordan asks worryingly, as he pulls a pair of gloves on his hands. He starts digging in the wound for the bullet, earning an agonized scream from Adam – “Calm down, Adam. It’s not deep, see?” Jordan says. He fishes out the bloodied bullet and shows it to Adam, who responds by laughing – but even the slightest movement catches him, causing Adam to groan even louder. Jordan squeezes small bottles of sterile water to clean the wound, stuffing it with gauze while he prepares his suturing Adam.

Adam clutches the metal sides of the table tightly, waiting for the next onslaught of pain. His face is ghostly white. “The cops wouldn’t be able to keep me safe,” he whispers sternly.

“Like hiding in my church would help,” Jordan scoffs, as he pulls out the bloodied gauze and starts to suture Adam’s wound. Adam yelps in pain, causing Jordan to nearly poke his own eye with the suturing needle. “You gotta stay still, Adam. I don’t have anaesthetics because they only stitch up dead people in here.”

“I’m sorry, Hendo,” Adam manages between the interlude of Jordan pricking his skin with the needle, pulling the needle and tying the suture thread. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles repeatedly, like a litany of prayers.

“What’s going on, Adz?” Jordan asks, as he starts another interrupted suture. “What did Sturridge say to you? Why are the Russians after you? Why did you go to the church?”

So many questions, and yet he knows that Adam doesn’t have the strength to answer any of them coherently. Adam doesn’t squirm as much now, and Jordan has to look up just to make sure that Adam is still alive. He is. Adam is getting used to being stitched up; his pain tolerance has increased with each prick and tug of the needle and thread.

“I’m sorry, Hendo,” Adam mumbles deliriously. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Jordan thinks he’s done a botched-up job of closing the wound, and Adam might benefit from some stat saline and morphine right now, but at least the bleeding has slowed. He puts more gauze on top of the wound for pressure and tapes it with Micropore, before he hears more shouting and footsteps down the corridor. “Shit, they found us.”

His burner phone rings at the same time. Charleston.

“Where the fuck are you?” Jordan asks, sounding desperate. “The Russians are everywhere.”

“Harley and Sons, Funeral Directors. We’re cornered. Hurry,” Jordan orders, before hanging up. He checks his ammo and thinks that it would last him five more bullets before running out. He has to risk it. The Russians are making a sweep of the floor, checking every room in the funeral parlour. It won’t take long before they find Jordan and Adam, especially with the blood trail that Adam has left, like cookie crumbles.

When the first thug enters the embalming room, Jordan knocks him off with one blow to the head and shoots the second and third ruffians, also in their kneecaps. Maybe his Krav Maga isn’t that rusty after all. Another one bites the dust, then another. They are falling like flies, but Jordan knows that this is only the first wave. The Russians haven’t pulled out the big guns yet.

Gunshots are fired through the glass apertures of the embalming room. The Russians now know their exact location for sure, and he needs to get out of here fast. “Stay down,” he tells Adam. “I got this.” He peers out the door again and is satisfied that it’s clear, before signalling Adam to stay close to him. “We gotta get out of here, okay?” Adam nods. Jordan clutches Adam’s icy cold hand just to make sure that he doesn’t leave him behind, as Jordan has done years before.

More thugs coming their way, right left and centre. It doesn’t bode well – until he hears more gunshots coming from out of the building. He breathes a sigh of relief when Charleston comes charging with two cops – and five more men who don’t look like archetypal cops to Jordan. They are using non-regulation weapons and methods that are against police protocol – and Jordan could feel his blood being drained out of his body. Adam grips his hand tighter.

These men aren’t cops.

“Jude!” Charleston shouts, running towards Jordan and Adam over a pile of Russian bodies, but stops when Jordan cocks his gun at the detective.

“Who are you?” Jordan asks, as Charleston mirrors his movement with his own sidearm. Jordan knows the answer, although it loathes him to say it. Jordan now knows the answer to all his previous questions for Adam, revealed in one single word, syllable; _name._

_Jude._

“Robbo,” Adam mutters. “Don’t shoot him. He saved my life.”

Jordan should have seen it coming. He should have known.

With seven guns now all trained on him, Jordan decides that the risk is not worth taking. He lets go of his gun and kicks it towards Charleston. _Robbo._ Whatever his real name is. The fraud detective responds by throwing Jordan a pair of handcuffs. “Cuff yersel’,” he instructs Jordan, now in a thick Glaswegian accent, before helping Adam up on his feet. Jordan could only watch him limp away in Charleston’s arms.

“I’m sorry, Hendo.”

 _Judas,_ Jordan thinks. “You tricked me.”

“You’ve always been so idealistic,” Adam says with a mixture of pity and admiration, as he holds on to Charleston – whom he has addressed as Robbo. “I used to be like that. Always wanting to please everybody. That’s where you and I now differ, my dear,” he coughs, before clutching painfully at his wound. “Sometimes you gotta be selfish and stand up for yourself, or they will trample all over you.”

“Whatever you’re planning, _Jude,_ ” Jordan hisses, “—it’s not going to end well.”

“It’s a good plan, then,” Adam smiles magnanimously, his cheeks pale in the half light of the corridor. The personification of an angel, speaking in the voice of Lucifer. “I’ve played the part beautifully, don’t you think? Always keeping my head down, always pretending that I’m meek, that I’m just a lackey. Because that’s what everyone thinks. Because that’s what I want them to think.”

Jordan is torn, twisted between wanting to kiss Adam, damning himself to eternity – or to punch him in his beautiful face, destroying that lazy smirk on Adam’s lips. “Are you happy with all of this? Content?”

“I can ask you the same thing, Jordan,” Adam sneers, before shaking his head ruefully. “You miss that wretched hellhole, don’t you? Iraq? The warzone? You miss it,” he accuses Jordan, “—and you thoroughly enjoyed tonight.”

“It’s _not_ a hellhole,” Jordan snaps, surprised by the sudden ire that rises sharply inside his body. Adam’s words always hit too close to home, and it scares him. Or is it something about the adrenaline that is messing with his emotions? “It’s harsh and hot and dry and it’s not _home_ , but it’s not the hellhole that everyone here expects it to be.”

“So it’s _not_ a hellhole,” Adam retracts, “—but you still miss it,” he says pointedly. “You miss that life, but you also miss that cloying domestic life with Sharon and Natalie.” Jordan’s handcuff clinks against the metal rail, jarring against the quiet of the funeral parlour. Police sirens begin to blare faintly in the background. Milner is on his way, and he will be destroyed by the revelation that Charleston—no, Robbo— has been working for Adam all along.

“I’m not going to be waxing lyrical about you, but there’s no spark in your eyes— it’s like _this_ —,” Adam does the crucifix and prayer sign, “ _this_ isn’t living for you. It’s like you’re glad to be home, but you’re _gladder_ to be back out there in the field.”

Adam’s words are like multiple punches to Jordan’s gut.

“Adam—,” Jordan says.

“You know I’m right,” Adam interjects, a perceptive look on his face. “This life is _not_ for you.”

“So you pulled me into yours?”

“I _never_ asked you to help me, Jordan. Are you going to play hero and ask me to stop now? It’s too late.”

“Milner is on your tail, as we speak.”

“I know.”

“You’re not invincible.”

“I _know,_ ” Adam motions to his abdomen, where blood is already seeping through Jordan’s makeshift dressing. “You patched me up real good, Jordan. I know I’m surrounded by death. I’m not scared of it.” The siren is blaring louder, closer.

“We have to leave,” Robbo warns.

“Take care, Hendo,” Adam says, before escaping through the back alleys of the funeral parlour, into the dark corners of the night. Robbo and his men follow suit, driving through the flickering city lights, in an unmarked SUV.

Jordan is left handcuffed to the rails, pathetically waiting for Milner to find him – all battered and bruised, and completely fooled.

_God, why are you testing me like this?_

 

* * *

 

“I looked into our mutual friend,” Milner informs Jordan, in the same interrogation room Jordan was held in less than 24 hours earlier. “After Adam Lallana was adopted, he moved to Scotland,” he says.

“I know that,” Jordan says, licking the blood off his split lip.

“He was adopted by the Robertson family – who has strong connections with the Irish mob,” Milner explains, as if the name is supposed to mean anything to Jordan. “Adam’s adoptive brother is Andy Robertson, who later used the name Robbo.”

“Robbo,” Jordan mutters under his breath. _Goddamn it._ It all makes sense now.

“Robbo—,” Milner concurs, “—who cleverly manoeuvres his way up the police academy under the alias Robert Charleston,” he nods sagely, before showing a headshot of Robbo in a police uniform. “Spotless record, too.”

_How long have they planned this, Robbo and Adam?_

“Did you know?” Jordan asks, his voice coming out strangled.

“Nobody knew. Until tonight. It didn’t click with me— until today—,” Milner sighs, “—that Adam Lallana is St Jude. And once we pursued that angle, everything makes perfect sense. Why Studge spoke to him before he died. Why the Russians are after him.”

_But why did he hide in my church? Klopp knew nothing about it either._

Jordan’s gaze drops to an old black and white photo of a beautiful lady in a dress – save for the part that she is lying with her eyes open, in a pool of her own blood, two clean shots to her chest. “Who’s this?” Jordan asks, putting a finger on the photo and slides it towards Milner.

“That’s Adam’s real mother,” Milner growls under his breath. “She was a jazz singer in the 1970s. Classy, even at the end. It was an unsolved case, but obviously, there are dirty hands involved. It was messy.”

Tom Sullivan’s mugshot from thirty years ago is also in the pile.

“We have never been able to prove it, but we now believe that Tom Sullivan was involved, somehow, in her death. But before her demise, she has asked this handsome fella here—,” Milner points to the mugshot of David Lallana, who was Sully’s right hand man, “—to take care of our mutual friend. He sticks our boy in St Peter’s – a Freemason institution, of all places, where he met you. Until Sully was put behind bars.”

“And asked the Robertson family to take Adam out of there,” Jordan surmises. “To groom him to take Sully’s place.”

“I wish it was just that,” Milner clicks his tongue. “Because of his organization’s subversive methods and hacking expertise, our mutual friend has been able to manipulate and bring the Five Families under his thumb. Even the Italians fear him,” he informs Jordan. “Your best friend is now the King of New York.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“I’m telling you because Robert was one of the best cops I’ve ever worked with, but we never knew that he was Robbo. I’m telling you because your mate Adam – his slate was clean. Both of them have been living double lives, right under our noses, and we trusted them. I trusted Robert.”

“Don’t sweat it, Detective,” Jordan sighs. “I trusted Adam too.”

_I trusted him with my life._

 

* * *

 

Jordan dreams at night, and in every dream there was Adam.

And every time he wakes, God—

_Why?_

 

* * *

 

Jordan has been given time off for a week after what happened. During the confrontation, not only his coat was ruined by bullet holes and Adam’s blood. His apartment was also thrashed by the Russians, during the time they were being chased down the streets. They’ve clearly assumed that Adam and Jordan would be seeking refuge there instead of a random funeral parlour. With most of his possessions destroyed and broken, Jordan had to move out into a temporary accommodation – a youth hostel behind the church, which is surprisingly handy for work.

They’ve even thrown his bicycle out of his apartment window.

Mrs Rosenbaum doesn’t even say hello to him when he went back to his old apartment to retrieve his stuff – she just stares with wonderment and a tinge of fear, as she cleans up the broken glass from Jordan’s window on the streets. She doesn’t even comment on the bruises on his face.

Sharon has been especially distraught by the revelation of Adam’s true identity. Jordan has downplayed his involvement in the incident – she doesn’t even know that he still carries a gun, let alone the fact that he has been involved in shooting the kneecaps of Russian mobsters. Milner, on the other hand, has decided not to charge Jordan. They’ve even offered him to be under witness protection, which Jordan respectfully declines. Even as the cops continue their pursuit of St Jude, it proves to be difficult to dig up any legitimate evidence to pin him down. St Jude’s men are either very loyal or very careful despite the round-the-clock surveillance, and Milner can’t help but wonder if Adam has eyes and ears in all NYPD precincts.

Jordan still has a hard time accepting that Adam has grown to become a feared mobster. Adam’s photo on the newspaper front page was a goofy one, with his impish dark eyes and dark curls trimmed in a half-buzz cut, wearing a Supreme hoodie and throwing a peace sign. It was snatched off his Facebook profile, and he doesn’t look an inch like your typical mafia boss. The photo was snapped with his special education grad school buddies while they were on holiday, somewhere in Europe. 

The NYPD’s initial background check on Adam has been squeaky clean, as was their second and third. His cyber footprints are pristine. It should have been the tell-tale sign of someone harbouring a dark secret. Adam’s mobile phone number no longer works. It shouldn’t have come off as a surprise.

What does, though, is a parcel that comes three days after Jordan fully moves into the hostel. He’s on his way out anyway, to see Klopp about the upcoming Summer Fete that the parish is organizing. Jordan has never been one to sit idle when he was told to rest. It’s more of the fact that Klopp doesn’t want the parishioners to get worried if they see Jordan with a black eye and a torn lip. They’ve cooed over him enough when they first found out that he’s lost his left leg in Nasiriyah.

The delivery kid who stands at the doorframe hands him a massive box and asks him to sign his register. Jordan blinks awkwardly when the door closes on him, with the heavy package in his arms. He has not expected a delivery today. Apart from Klopp, Sharon and Natalie, no one knows where he lives, apart from maybe half his parishioners who have seen him lugging the remnants of his possessions from his old apartment.

Jordan picks up his Swiss knife and stabs through the top of the cardboard box, cutting through the layers of masking tape. Inside the parcel is an expensive-looking box, which Jordan struggles to lift out of the original packaging due to the amount of polystyrene and confetti covering it. Emblazoned on top is a word, all in capitals: BELSTAFF. Jordan drags a sharp breath. He picks up a small card attached to the box.

“Sorry about your old coat,” it reads, in an all too familiar scrawl, undated and unsigned.

“Adam,” Jordan mutters. “You fucker.”

 

* * *

 

Lifting the lid, Jordan takes a sharp breath at what he sees. He pulls out the magnificent trench coat out of the layers and layers of expensive wrapping paper, feeling the glorious wool and cashmere against his fingertips. It isn’t even the right season for a trench coat. It must have cost thousands of dollars, he thinks. It must have cost more than what he currently owns in the hostel room.

As Jordan is recovering from his initial shock, his burner phone vibrates on the table. An unknown number.

He picks it up. “Hullo?” Jordan offers guardedly.

“Do you like it?”

Jordan has intended to be calm, cautious. Instead, he practically shouts down the phone in pure rage, and if he grips the phone any harder, it might have crumbled in his fist.

“What the fuck, Adam?”

Adam remains unperturbed, despite the split second hesitance before his reply. “Consider it an apology. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that the Russians would go so far as to wrecking your place,” Adam says, sounding a bit too nonchalant for Jordan’s taste. “We’re good now, though. They won’t hassle you ever again. Are you okay?”

 _This is wrong,_ Jordan thinks. _This is sinful._

He stares up at the crucifix on the wall, watching Jesus bleed, silently praying that God will help him resist Adam. But the statue only stares dumbly back.

Jordan glances down at the lapel of the coat, thumbing the button holes as he tries to process Adam’s words. “Never better,” he replies, more bluntly than he’s intended. “Where are you, Adam? Have you been watching me the whole time?”

“Not the whole time, no. But I _have_ been watching,” Adam says judiciously. “Can’t take any chances when everyone’s out for blood.”

It should have been a test, just like any other tests. Jordan usually excels at them. He could resist temptation, but he’s never been tested like this.

Not Adam. 

Jordan steadies his breathing. Adam is clever, phoning his burner phone from likely what is to be _another_ burner phone. Milner has been tapping all possible lines of communication, and Jordan wonders if anyone is listening to this conversation right now.

“Why, Adam?”

“I ruined your coat.”

“Adam—,” Jordan struggles to stay patient, “—you know what I mean.”

A soft, shuffling sound. Jordan wonders where Adam might be. “I don’t think you’d understand,” Adam replies gently.

“Try me.” Jordan has heard enough licentious details in the confessional; he’s seen enough shit for Adam to land him another one.

“Not here,” Adam says.

“Then where?”

“I’ll come find you.”

 

* * *

 

Despite Adam’s promise, Jordan doesn’t hear from him for days after that, and he becomes more edgy and tetchy despite himself. He keeps the coat in its pristine packaging— locking it inside a heavy chest at his parish, instead of keeping a $2000 worth of trench coat in a $50 per week hostel room.

The parishioners are glad to see him back – but there is a certain kind of hesitance and newfound reverence that they have reserved for him— as if they _know,_ and doesn’t dare venture beyond the practiced “We miss you, Father Henderson. How’s the eye?” line.

Even Klopp sees him in a new light, dancing the line between respect and trepidation. Klopp was a mobster before turning to God, although Jordan knows now that the good priest has been dabbling with less than savoury activities with the St Jude gang to keep the parish alive. The donations, the sponsorships, even the money to organize the upcoming fete.

It turns out that St Jude has been clawing his foothold longer than Jordan thought – longer than before Jordan even sets foot in this parish, imbuing his presence in the hearts and minds of the residents in the neighbourhood. Helping them under the guise of shell corporations and faceless individuals at their helm. Scratch deeper and they all lead to one man – Adam.

Adam’s only decided to come back to seal his father’s fate – except that misstep with Studge and the Russians, forcing him to show his face. But even then it seems that Adam relishes being in the limelight. Even Milner, despite his grouches, admits that crime rates have gone down since St Jude came into power, monopolising the illegal businesses this side of New York and Jersey.

Jordan would not consider Milner a friend, but he shares the cop’s experience of being a Marine, or his pain of being betrayed by someone close. Yet Jordan couldn’t help but feel that he is betraying Milner now, by speaking to Adam and not letting Milner know about it.

It’s another long day of confessions, and Jordan is rubbing his eyes tiredly when he hears the booth door open, the creak of someone sitting behind the latticed barrier.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

Jordan turns his head and locks gazes with a pair of dark eyes, glimmering treacherously in the soft lights filtering through the booth’s carvings.

“Adam?” Jordan yelps, nearly jumping off his seat, hitting his head against the wooden panel of the confessional. “How did you get in here?”

“I walked in. I told ya I’d come find ya,” Adam says egregiously. “Did you like the coat I sent you?”

“I can’t accept it. It’s not—,” Jordan stammers, before Adam cuts him off. “It’s the kind of coat that suits you,” he says. “I know you’d look good in it.”

“Why are you even here?”

“To make amends,” Adam tells him pointedly. “Are you angry at me?”

Angry is an understatement. Jordan exhales loudly and covers his face with his palms. “I was worried for you,” he says, before turning to look at Adam again. “The cops are after you now. How are you even able to walk in broad daylight?”

“I’ve made a deal with the Russians.”

“Like you’ve made a deal with the cops? How many moles have you planted in the police, _Jude?_ ” Jordan asks, words laced with venom, making a point to use Adam’s mob name instead.

If Adam is astounded by Jordan’s lividness, he doesn’t show it. “Milly’s a good cop. Robbo liked him,” he says. “But the cops won’t be able to touch us for a while. They’ve got nothing to tie us down to. Nothing tangible, anyway.”

Belatedly, Jordan realizes that it was Adam who has helped Sharon to save her diner.  It was Adam who tipped Chicago PD about Mikey and his mistress’s criminal activities, retaliating on Natalie’s behalf. He confronts Adam about it, but Adam remains impenitent. “What’s done is done,” Adam says, devoid of remorse.

Jordan clenches his jaw. “Why did they call you Jude?”

“I’m a lost cause, and St Jude is of course—,” Adam makes a windmill motion with his left hand, urging Jordan to continue, “—the patron saint of lost causes,” Jordan muses, before chuckling sardonically.

Adam is far from a saint – he’s an unrelenting serpent, with that wicked smile on his face and a shuddering voice that rips Jordan’s soul apart, shaking his faith, making him question the entire purpose of his life.

“The day I met you, I was casing the parish for a smuggling op. Klopp’s been helping us, although he’d been reluctant to do it at first. Don’t think badly of him, Jordan,” Adam confesses. “I didn’t realize you were a priest here. I didn’t even think that I’d bump into you—,” Adam wavers, suddenly fraught with emotions. It takes several seconds for Jordan to realize that Adam is holding back tears. “I didn’t expect you, Hendo. I didn’t expect you _again._ ”

That’s what he meant— the first time Adam said it, in Jordan’s apartment. He understands now.

“You’re such a fucking nuisance, you know that?” Adam says, his voice breaking, undecided whether he wants to laugh or cry.

“Did you regret it?”

“Regret what?” Adam retorts, hiding a sniffle.

“Approaching me in Mrs Lovren’s bodega that day?” Jordan replies. “If I’ve become such a nuisance to you?”

“Some days I do. But some days I don’t,” Adam admits. “I needed to know if it was really you. And without you, I would be dead by now,” Adam says contemplatively. “I owe you my life. It’s always been you who looked after me, so now it’s my turn to return the favour.”

“I don’t need your protection, Adam. I could look after myself,” Jordan insists, belligerent. Surprisingly, Adam agrees with him. “Yes I know,” he says. “You could look after yourself,” Adam lifts his gaze. Through the screen, he smiles at Jordan, desolate.

“But that doesn’t stop me from worrying about you constantly.”

 

* * *

 

Adam doesn’t need to be, but he acts like a small guy trying to act tall. Perhaps it’s his experience growing up that somehow influenced his behaviour, although Adam has never really elaborated on his school years, not after leaving Brooklyn. Jordan could only imagine how it might have affected how Adam walks, how he talks, how he cocks his head _cockily_ as if to prove a point. He’s scrawny, by Jordan’s military standards. That’s why he thinks he needs to put his hair up. To give him the extra inch of height he doesn’t need.

 _You’re perfect the way you are, Adz,_ Jordan wants to tell him, but he isn’t sure if Adam will believe him.

Adam continues to haunt Jordan, even when he is not physically there. Despite announcing his disinterest in the Christian faith, Adam begins to attend Mass, distracting Jordan from his job, as the mobster sits in his charcoal grey three-piece-suit, blue floral tie and matching square pocket, at the same spot every Sunday. Watching, learning, listening to everything – but accepting _nothing._ He doesn’t talk to Jordan afterwards, let alone acknowledge his presence. Adam merely stares demurely up at Jordan when he places the consecrated bread between Adam’s lips. “The body of Christ,” Jordan will say, and Adam will reply “Amen,” like a poster child for all things sweet and decent—acting the part of a good, gracious Christian.

It’s obscene.

His frequency of visits to Jordan’s parish doesn’t escape Milner’s attention. A few weeks later Milner knocks on Jordan’s door with a bottle of whiskey, announcing that he’s there for an unofficial visit, demanding Jordan to tell him what the hell is going on. “If I hadn’t known better, I’d say that he’s infatuated with you,” he wags his finger at Jordan. Drunkenly, he also presses Jordan to become his informant, to take advantage of Adam’s trust in Jordan in order to infiltrate St Jude’s organization. Milner cites duty and Jordan’s previous experience as a Marine as the main reasons why he’s perfect for the job, but Jordan declines the offer.

“I wouldn’t do that to Adam. An eye for an eye and everybody gets blind, Detective,” Jordan says deferentially.

He’s just not that kind of man.

 

* * *

 

That night, after Milner leaves, Jordan thinks he must be dreaming again— because he’s walking on clouds, fluffy and bouncy, all white and golden and pristine. Winged cherubs playing harps flying above him, playing melodies of lullabies he once knew. He blinks, and suddenly he’s in a dark room, silent, before a glimmer of light appears in front of him. He continues walking, blindly following the light, warm; sacrosanct.

He blinks again, and two hands are welcoming him— no, embracing him with a pair of wings, the answers to all of his prayers. It is only when he looks up that Jordan realizes that it is Adam, who is cupping his face with such punishing gentleness. Bracketing Jordan inside his the warmth of his unruffled wings, Adam lowers his lips upon Jordan’s for a searing kiss.

He could taste the radiance of Adam’s smile, and it tastes like Heaven.

\--

In his free time, Jordan usually spends his Saturday morning coaching football to middle school kids, before heading off to the east side of the park to play chess with Trent and his granddad. He has grown to know the elderly man in the last five years since coming home from Iraq, since joining the seminary. On this particular day, Mr Alexander-Arnold the elder has checkmated him three times. Accepting defeat, Jordan decides to call it a day and stop by Mrs Lovren’s bodega to get bread on the way home.

Looking around, the shop has been refurbished; the bullet holes have been painted over and covered by new shelves. He shudders when he remembers that this is also the place where he meets Adam for the first time, after what feels like forever.

“Hello, Mrs Lovren. How are you?” he greets her at the till.

“I heard what happened,” she says, as she accepts his cash and hands his change.

Jordan merely shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Mrs Lovren isn’t smiling today – she rarely smiles, but there’s something disturbing behind her perpetual frown.

“Something wrong, Mrs Lovren?”

Despite her reticence, she eventually breaks and opens up. “It’s about Dejan,” she says.

Jordan remembers Dejan— Mrs Lovren’s only son who is left alive. They’ve barely had any interactions with each other, but he feels that he knows enough about Dejan, because Mrs Lovren tells Jordan about him all the time. He knows, for instance, that Dejan used to be in the police academy but left because he felt that the environment was too strict. Recently, Mrs Lovren also told Jordan that Dejan had moved to Jersey before relocating to Queens. Jordan has also seen Dejan help out with the shop from time to time, but mostly it’s always been Trent and Mrs Lovren manning the floor. 

“What about Dejan?” he inquires.

“I don’t know what he’s been doing, but each time he sees me, he comes with money—too much money,” Mrs Lovren says worriedly. “I don’t know where he gets it from. I’m so tired, Father. I tried speaking to him but he won’t listen. I pray for him every day, Father.”

Jordan clenches his fist. “God is merciful,” he declares, although the words ring hollow even to his own ears.

“I’m getting older every day and I can’t always look after him,” she tells Jordan.

“I’ll try to keep an eye on him, Mrs Lovren. Don’t you worry,” Jordan says, as he holds his loaf of bread close to his chest. He doesn’t even know who he’s attempting to reassure here – Mrs Lovren or himself.

“God is merciful,” he repeats mechanically, as if on autopilot.

 _His mercy endures forever,_ Jordan thinks.

 

* * *

 

It’s only halfway down to the parish when a shiny black Jaguar slows down beside the pavement. The skies are grey and it has started to drizzle lightly, but it’s nothing Jordan can’t handle. The passenger window rolls down and it is Adam, leaning away from his driver’s seat to stick his head closer to speak to Jordan. “Do you want a lift? I’m heading that way anyway,” Adam says. The butterfly bandages on Adam’s forehead doesn’t escape Jordan’s attention. “The weather’s shit,” Adam adds, as if to prove a point.

Jordan hesitates and looks away, gasping slightly when a gust of wind suddenly hits him in the face. The rain chooses that exact moment to pour heavily, causing him to curse silently for forgetting his umbrella. In resignation, he enters Adam’s car— before his loaf of bread gets completely drenched and inedible from the rain. The car smells leathery, masculine – sophisticated.

Beside him, Adam is wearing driving gloves, clutching the steering wheels as he looks at the traffic ahead. 

He’s in a light blue suit today, making his eyes appear brighter than its usual hue. Adam smells like soap, cigars and aftershave, but none is more overpowering than the other. Meanwhile, Jordan elects to wear his usual worn-out jacket that he’s owned since high school, dog collar almost branded to his skin. Drill Sergeant Carra would be ashamed to call Jordan a former Marine, if he were to inspect Jordan’s current grooming standard. He’s in dire need of a haircut.

The difference between Jordan and Adam is like night and day.

The drive is silent. When Adam pulls the car in front of the parish, Jordan loosens his seatbelt and moves to open the car door. “Jordan,” Adam stops him, a gloved hand on his arm. Jordan could feel his heart beating faster – he thinks Adam could probably sense it through the layers of his black leather gloves and Jordan’s corduroy jacket.

“Look in the glove compartment,” Adam orders him. The engine is still running. Jordan half-expects to see a gun, so he is startled to find a series of Polaroid photos of Adam, from the time that they have been apart.

The missing years between being Adam Lallana and becoming St Jude.

“That,” Adam points out, “—was me in senior year of high school,” he says, as Jordan flicks through the first few photos. He flips them over and reads the scribbles behind every photograph. Drama Society, the Marching Band, the Student Council, Scrabble Champion.

A nerd in a soft pale-coloured sweater, with thick-rimmed glasses decorating his features, grinning widely for the camera. Braces. Why isn’t Jordan surprised? The kid in the photos was the spitting image of the old Adam he once knew. The new Adam is sharper, yet soft at the same time. In the right places. He’s an oxymoron and it’s confusing and it’s too much for Jordan to handle.

Jordan goes through the next set of photographs. They show a slightly older Adam sans glasses in different variations, but much younger than he is now— but it’s not like Jordan could differentiate it from the grainy photos – sporting different hair colours. Jet black, turquoise, blood red, electric blue. Glittery eye-shadow and mascara, accentuating his eyelashes. Black nail polish on slender fingers. For the lack of a better word, Adam is _beautiful._

He compares the different set of photographs to the man sitting next to him, who is patiently awaiting Jordan’s judgment. Adam doesn’t seem like he’s aged at all, although Jordan could trace the frown lines on Adam’s forehead, the crescent-shaped crinkles at the corner of his eyes when he grins toothily. This Adam is much more mature, much more composed, but no less animated and gregarious in the right kind of company.

_How did Adam even become St Jude?_

Jordan doesn’t know who’s the consummate betrayer – is it God, is it Adam, or is it himself?

He doesn’t even realize that tears are welling up in his eyes, until he discovers that his vision is blurred and his face wet, while Adam watches him with an inscrutable expression.

 “Can we start over, Hendo? Properly,” Adam says. “Please?” he pleads.

Jordan presses the balls of his palms against his closed eyes, wiping his tears away. He doesn’t sob – this isn’t the time or place for that. “Is there any of the old Adam left in you?” he asks, swallowing heavily.

“I haven’t changed, Hendo. You know I haven’t. I’m still Adam Lallana,” Adam professes. “ _Your Adam_.”

 _You were never mine to begin with_ , Jordan thinks – before he catches himself in shock. _Where did that thought come from?_

“Let me make up to you. Let me treat you to dinner. Tonight?” Adam asks. “Jacob’s Pickles, 7.30.”

Jordan tucks Adam’s photos inside the glove compartment and shuts it with a thud. He grinds his teeth unnervingly– he’s determined to say no; he _should_ say no. He thinks of Sharon and Natalie, he thinks of Klopp and Detective Milner.

He thinks of God.

A thousand Hail Marys can’t help Jordan now. He tries to come up with a prayer, but each time his mind comes up blank.

_Give me a sign. Make me stop. Make me leave. Push me away from him._

_Or are You going to keep betraying me, God?_

But God doesn’t reply, and Jordan’s left to make his own choices.

Jordan thinks of Hell and eternal damnation, and then, he thinks, _fuck it._

“I can’t promise,” he tells Adam. “But I’ll try to be there.”

There is a pause; a silent beat, before Adam swiftly leans across the gearstick and pulls Jordan into a tight embrace. He has hugged Adam so many times, but it has never felt like this, as he rests his forehead against Adam’s shoulder, against the crook of his neck.  This Adam wears the face of St Jude, a mob boss he’s supposed to fear, instead of Adz, Llama, his friend.

“Thank you, Jordan,” Adam whispers gruffly against his ear. “I owe you my life.”

Jordan pulls away and looks into Adam’s eyes.

_When I asked You to save him, God, this wasn’t what I had in mind._

_Did You send him back to me to torment me?_

At the end of the day, Adam’s still Adam, no matter which name he chooses to use, which mask he chooses to wear. Maybe Jordan doesn’t need to be so scared anymore.

At the end of the day, they’re all one and the same.

 

* * *

 

A crisis of faith is not unheard of. Jordan sits with Klopp as the older priest takes a drag out of his vape, puffing raspberry-scented smoke that Jordan inhales, sickly sweet in Jordan’s lungs.

“I’ve never seen you so distraught,” Klopp comments, fingers trembling. Jordan thinks that Klopp must have had internal crises from time to time, but he still _believes_ , and Jordan envies him for that. Despite Klopp’s own clouded past, the hurt; the stretched-out numbness.

“God can’t help me this time, Klopp,” Jordan says quietly. “The more I ask for help, He abandons me even more.”

“Maybe He’s helping you in ways that He deems necessary. Maybe He’s answered your prayers but you’re hearing it all wrong,” Klopp insists, gentle in his rebuke.

Jordan lets out a sigh, before looking up at the intricate patterns of the parish’s ceiling. He doesn’t think he could offer any more prayers – it’s too late for all of that. He doesn’t think he could bear sitting around and doing nothing, waiting for some Messiah to deliver him a miracle.

It’s torture.

 

* * *

 

Jordan has expected something out of The Godfather, but he is surprised by the hustle and bustle of the restaurant. Situated in the heart of Upper West Side, the establishment is heaving with patrons. Jordan has made the effort to look presentable, even if it will never match up to Adam’s standard. He’s trimmed his hair into a buzzcut, ditching the corduroy jacket for a pea coat that Sharon had bought him last Christmas.

He has intended to use this occasion to return the Belstaff coat to Adam, carrying the package gawkily as he is escorted up to the second floor, where Robert – no – _Robbo_ – awaits. Another man named Mo inspects the box while Robbo frisks Jordan for weapons. He’s good, Jordan’ll give Robbo that. He thoroughly pats Jordan’s waist, his ankles, even the entirety of his entire prosthetic leg. “Don’t get any funny ideas, Father,” Robbo says, before opening the door for Jordan to enter, like a demon welcoming Jordan into the deepest circle of hell.

Its fire is about to consume Jordan whole.

Adam doesn’t even scramble away when Robbo and Jordan barge unannounced into the room, inadvertently catching Adam in the arms of an angel— a handsome stranger, as they are sharing an intimate moment; perhaps even a kiss. Robbo clears his throat uneasily. “I _did_ knock,” he says, still holding the door open. The stranger has dark eyes and perfect skin, everything that Jordan is not— a Seraph to Adam’s Lucifer. Standing upright, the man has to be at least three inches taller than Adam – who is already towering over Jordan with his height. Sharing a brief smile with Jordan, the angel licks his lips shrewdly, ambling past Jordan in some semblance of temptation, to give them some privacy. 

“I can’t stay long,” Jordan shifts his eyes awkwardly, as soon as Robbo and the man leave the room. “I ditched a family dinner for this. I can’t make Sharon and Natalie worry more than they already do.”

“They don’t know that you’re hanging out with me, do they?”

Jordan doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “No.”

“They don’t know about Mikey or the diner either?”

“No.”

“I assume they won’t approve,” Adam reflects, pursing his lips thoughtfully. 

“They specifically asked me to stay away from you.”

“So why are you here?”

“Because I worry about you,” Jordan parrots Adam’s words from a few days ago, “— _constantly._ ”

Adam stares up at him blankly, mentally searching for words that never come.

“Also,” Jordan says, breaking the heavy silence, “I came to return this,” he drops the Belstaff package on the low table between them. “I haven’t worn it.”

This earns him a more animated reaction from Adam than seconds prior. “Come on, Hendo. At least let me see you put it on before you return it to me. Please?”

Jordan pinches the bridge of his nose and relents. “Fine,” he says, before lifting the coat from its packaging. Adam watches eagerly as Jordan rids himself of his pea coat and slides into the luxurious trench coat for the first time. There’s no denying that it fits Jordan perfectly. He catches his reflection in the glass windows overlooking the ground floor of the restaurant, admiring the way he looks in impeccably tailored clothing. On the flip side, it also makes him look like a professional hitman.

“Past the priestly uniform you insist on adhering to—,” Adam tells him, “—I don’t think you realize how embarrassingly attractive you are,” he says, appreciative of Jordan’s figure in the well-cut garment. “You looked great in a cassock; I knew you’d look great in this coat. Shame that I never get to see you in your dress blues,” Adam says.

It would be unfair if Jordan doesn’t think the same of Adam— he’s become leaner and meaner since leaving St Peter’s, with a strong jaw and intense eyes.

They’re good at pretending to be people they’re not, Jordan thinks. And as much fun he had from being a domesticated priest, he would be lying to himself and to God if he insists on saying that he doesn’t miss his life before the parish and the fetes. It’s just another one of the secrets he couldn’t tell Sharon— the thought of him going back wouldn’t sit right with her, with Natalie.

He couldn’t make them worry. That’s why he’s doing this, he rationalises. That’s why he’s content with just being a priest in a parish, because it’s small and safe. It’s between him and God, being _in_ the world and not _of_ the world.

It doesn’t quite explain his regular tête-à-têtes with Adam, though.

It doesn’t explain tonight.

Maybe Adam’s right. Maybe he does miss being back in the hellhole, in this pit of darkness and violence.

“I’ve got a job offer for you, if you’re really worried about me,” Adam says suddenly.

Expectantly, Jordan looks up at Adam. “Ditch the clergy. Be my bodyguard,” Adam proposes offhandedly.

“You’re insane.”

“Or,” Adam retracts, “Don’t ditch the clergy. Be my bodyguard in your free time. I work mostly nights anyway,” he says. This time, he sounds serious.

“No,” Jordan retorts. “That’s impossible.”

“What do you do in your free time, anyway?”

Jordan shakes his head frivolously, despite himself. “I thought you’d have known, given how closely you’ve been keeping tabs on me in the last few weeks.”

“Outside baptising babies and feeding people with wine and bread?” Adam asks, almost callously and with disregard. “That shit’s tasteless, by the way.”

“I don’t think you’ve invited me here just to insult my day job.”

Adam’s train of thought is interrupted when Robbo suddenly enters the room, looking alarmed. “I’m sorry, Jude, but Shaq’s hit a snag. We gotta go,” he says, sparing a quick glance at Jordan, who responds merely by folding his arms and pretending he doesn’t care.

“Told ya I mostly work nights,” Adam says jauntily, before standing up to leave. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Father? Am I condemned?”

It is still jarring to see Adam being confident and suave and brazened, interspersed with moments of fragility and frayed edges. Jordan has no substantial reply to Adam’s questions – although he has so many things to say, he doesn’t know how to begin, not when it’s Adam.

“Please be careful, Adam,” Jordan mouths silently, instead. He hopes that Adam will understand.

Adam purses his lips, opening his mouth as if he is about to come up with a witty comeback. Instead, he narrows his eyes, as his mind continues to mull over Jordan’s parting words. He is halfway out of the door before pivoting on the heel of one foot to face Jordan again.

“Oh, and before I forget—,” Adam says, in what almost seems to be an afterthought, “Happy birthday, Jordan,” he attempts to smile. It doesn’t quite get there. He doesn’t quite meet Jordan’s eyes, either. “Check the pocket of your coat for your birthday present,” he mock-salutes Jordan before leaving the restaurant, disappearing through the throng of crowds.

Jordan’s birthday is in three days’ time. Adam remembers, Jordan thinks with certain levity in his heart.

It isn’t until Adam is fully out of his sight that Jordan finally reaches into his pockets.

He fishes out a key.

Feeing confused, Jordan looks out of the glass windows overseeing the first floor. He sees the handsome man from earlier now sitting at table sixteen, entertaining a different lady, looking very cosy with his new company. Jordan eventually notices Robbo and Mo, who seem to be following in Adam’s footsteps, leaving the restaurant via the front entrance. Joining Robbo and Mo is another familiar-looking man, one whom Jordan has not seen in a long time—not since a brief encounter at Mrs Lovren’s bodega a good few months ago. He has to blink twice to make sure, but Jordan is rarely wrong.

It’s Dejan.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t tell Mrs Lovren what he knows. It would probably break her. What he does, though, is to tail Dejan when he exits his apartment block, all the way to a back alley in Queens a few days later. He doesn’t wear his dog collar today. It’s his day off – he’s allowed, he thinks – and he needs to take a break from writing sermons that he no longer believes in. Jordan watches silently as Dejan meets up with Mo– and another stern-looking, shorter (but sturdy-looking), dark-haired man. Dejan addresses the second man as Shaq.

 _Shaq’s hit a snag,_ as Robbo has said, a few nights ago.

Jordan is finally able to put a face to the name, now.

Shaq hands Dejan a semi-automatic gun and a wad of cash, before they move off in different directions. Jordan tails Dejan on the subway and he doesn’t even seem aware that he’s being shadowed. Jordan thinks he should have called Milner, but he doesn’t want to jump the gun. He’s used to working alone, with little backup. This is like child’s play to Jordan.

Dejan is heading towards an abandoned warehouse in Oyster Bay, where he pulls out his gun. Jordan’s hand automatically reaches for his own, too. There, he meets a tall, dark-clad figure who seems oddly familiar, in a billowing trench coat, suit and tie – Jordan thinks he’s seen him before, but where? His brain racks through TV interviews and newspaper articles, before it finally clicks. He gasps sharply when he figures out who the man is.

It’s Commissioner Virgil Van Dijk of the NYPD— Detective Milner’s superior, who has been the most vocal about tackling the gang feuds in the city.

Jordan inches closer, careful about not being seen. Surely Adam hasn’t been able to bribe his way into the NYPD, up to its Commissioner?

He couldn’t hear what they are saying, but it is times like these that his lip-reading skills come in handy. What he thinks he’s seeing doesn’t compute with what he thought this meeting was supposed to be.

“They’re making the drop on Wednesday night, 10 pm at the Harbour,” Dejan appears to say to Van Dijk.

“Do you know who else will be there?” Van Dijk asks.

Dejan begins to list a few names. “Shaq, Mo,” he says, “—and the buyer.”

Van Dijk appears dissatisfied. “Do you know if St Jude will be there too?”

“He never shows his face,” Dejan frowns, tapping his boots against the ground. “You know that.”

“Fuck,” Van Dijk hits his fist in frustration. “Do we know the identity of the buyer?”

“No dice – they’re very careful. They call themselves Balloon Party, which— frankly sir, is just their way of trolling us.”

 _‘Did I read that right?’_ Jordan thinks. _Balloon Party? Really?_

“Good job, Dejan.”

“After this, I’m out, right?” Dejan asks, his face screwing up in frustration. “I’ve been here too long that I don’t know who I am anymore. I can’t keep lying to them, to my mom, to _everyone._ ”

“You’re a good cop, Dej. That’s why we need you in Shaq’s group. He trusts you. I trust you,” Van Dijk says, before tapping Dejan’s shoulder in encouragement. “We’ll pull you out when it’s the right time, but now you gotta focus on the job.”

Jordan’s heartrate is skidding off the roof. He has this all backwards from the beginning. Dejan is not just a goon in Shaq’s group – he’s an undercover narcotic cop, hell bent on tearing St Jude’s empire, one drug trafficking op at a time. Dejan hasn’t left the police academy – it was just a story to strengthen his cover. Commissioner Van Dijk is the only one who knows about Dejan’s real day job – until now. Jordan feels that he has stumbled upon another dirty secret, and now he’s obliged to guard it with his life.

He doesn’t know what Mrs Lovren would say if she finds out about this either. What’s worse? The trials of being a low-level drug trafficker or the tribulations of an undercover cop?

What Jordan doesn’t know, however, is that Shaq already had his suspicions about Dejan being a rat in his operation.

It nearly becomes his greatest downfall.

 

* * *

 

Jordan has thought about getting Milner involved, but even that would risk compromising Dejan’s identity, even his life. At the same time, he worries that the sting op would implicate Adam somehow, given that he’s Shaq’s ultimate boss. In the end Jordan decides to let it roll over, and continues to shadow Dejan in between writing and delivering sermons, and officiating marriages.

By the time Jordan reaches the Harbour on Wednesday night, it was too late – he has barely reached the boat that they were on when he sees Mo and another goon carrying a body bag, before dumping it into the boot of a car. Dejan is nowhere in sight – and from afar, Jordan could hear Shaq holler, “Burn that fucking bastard!” to Mo.

Mo appears to hesitate, standing at the boot of the car before fumbling with the body bag. “What the fuck are you waiting for?” Shaq asks. Mo turns around and holds up a wallet. “Getting rid of this,” he says. “Don’t want anybody recognizing the body.”

Shaq lets out a chuckle. “By the time the car burns to the ground, no one will know who that rat is. Now get a move on, we’re already late. Fucking asshole ruined the entire thing,” he spits acridly. Jordan watches patiently, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He’s not even sure if Dejan’s alive or dead.

The goons begin to pour petrol over the car, before Mo lights a match and sets the car on fire. He walks away from the burning car and drives off with Shaq, perhaps to meet the drug buyer at a backup location after this one has been compromised. Jordan scrambles around to find a fire extinguisher, but fails to find any. The heat emanating from the car forbids him from getting closer, as roaring flames continue to engulf the car.

Jordan doesn’t know what he’d tell Mrs Lovren now. That her son is dead and Jordan did nothing to stop it from happening? That her son was a hero and died valiantly for a lost cause?

But miracles do happen, sometimes.

Jordan is about two strides from the car before the car boot, partially in flames suddenly bursts open. Dejan emerges from the flames, coughing and spluttering, bruised and battered – but alive. He scrambles out of the boot and falls to the ground, crawling away from the car wreck. As the world tilts back into normality, a pair of hands help him to stand up, getting him away as far as possible from the fire.  Dejan’s face is black with soot.

Thinking that he was being attacked, Dejan tries to tackle Jordan to the ground, before pointing a gun at Jordan’s face. “I’m just trying to help,” Jordan steps back and raises his arms in surrender. “I know about you, about Commissioner Van Dijk, about Shaq and St Jude. I know you’re a cop. We still can stop them,” Jordan exclaims, widening his eyes as innocently as he could. 

“Father Henderson?” Dejan asks in confusion, furrowing his brows. He recognizes Jordan. Dejan could barely stand, but he persists in training the gun towards Jordan, unsure of what or who to trust anymore. “What are you doing here?”

“I know you’re a narc. I know that there was supposed to be a sting op happening tonight—,” Jordan begins, before shaking his head. “They found out about you. How did they find out?”

“Shaq had his suspicions. Another transaction that went wrong,” Dejan explains. “But I’m not the only narc,” he tells Jordan. “Mo is too, but I didn’t know until today. They tortured me, but Mo made it look like he shot me. Gave me this,” he shows Jordan a bunch of keys that Mo’s left him, to rid himself of the handcuffs. Dejan lowers the gun. “You shouldn’t have come here, Father.”

“Well, your mom asked me to keep an eye on you, so, here I am.”

Dejan really doesn’t know how to respond to that.

 

* * *

 

“Shaq has arranged for another transaction to take place at a backup location,” Dejan explains as they escape from the harbour, running into the deserted parking lot. “If we’re quick enough, we’d be able to catch them red handed.”

“Do you know where it is?” Jordan asks.

“It’s on the other side of town,” Dejan says. “We need a car or we won’t get there in time.”

Jordan twirls around and sets his sight on a parked car about five metres away. “Will that do?” he asks Dejan, although he is already running towards it. He breaks the driver’s seat window and opens the door, silencing the blaring car alarm by rerouting the wires below the dashboard. Dejan watches in wonderment as Jordan spends another five seconds with the wires, eventually starting the car engine without a key card.

“Who _are_ you?” Dejan ask, bewildered. “You’re not just a fucking priest, are you?”

“I’m a man with a conscience,” Jordan replies, deliberately vague in his answer.

 _I’m a lost cause,_ he thinks, but maybe now he’s found his way home.

 

* * *

 

The tire screeches as they speed away from the harbour, leaving tire tracks on the tarmac. Dejan uses Jordan’s burner phone to leave a vague, anonymous tip on Van Dijk’s phone, asking for backup to where they’re going next. During the silence that follows, Jordan asks Dejan how he gets involved with Shaq and Saint Jude.

“I was too good for the police academy,” Dejan says, hands tightly gripping the steering wheel. “At least that’s what Virgil wanted me to believe. He personally picked me for the undercover job, and he wasn’t even a Commissioner back then.”

“How long?”

“Five years,” Dejan says. “We’ve known about Saint Jude for at least five years now, but he’s like this— God, or something. Everyone that works in the organization speaks reverently of him, like he’s some kind of omniscient, ethereal being. I was so sure that he doesn’t exist – but that shooting happened in my mom’s fucking bodega, and he finally shows his face.”

Jordan hums absentmindedly, transfixed by the passing city lights as they leave the Harbour, driving into the heart of Hell’s Kitchen.

It takes them another fifteen minutes before they finally arrive at their destination, another abandoned shop lot in Hell’s Kitchen. Shaq’s Hyundai is parked outside, and no one seems to be guarding the front door. Dejan switches off the car engine, leaving them to sit in the cold of darkness. “We’re gonna wait for backup. They’re going to be here any minute,” he tells Jordan. “I hope Mo’s doing okay.”

Jordan hasn’t been in a stakeout since forever. He remembers the long nights in Iraq, strong-pointing a town in the middle of the desert with Humvees, expecting battles that never come. Listening to his radio man butcher Alicia Keys songs to alleviate boredom, while his gunner munches on Skittles in the back seat. Static voices on the radio, giving commands that don’t make sense. The fireworks spectacle when air support drops tonnes of ordnance on a hamlet, containing nothing but innocent women and children.

He closes his eyes and questions his conscience. How could he have forgiven himself for being a part of that?

 _Only God forgives,_ he thinks. Even if Jordan believes he doesn’t deserve it.

“Why did you leave the Marines?” Dejan inquires thoughtfully. “I mean, I know guys who still stay in the military even though their legs get blown off.”

“War isn’t for me. I wanted a peaceful life,” Jordan says, too painfully aware that he is using past tense.

Dejan scoffs, but not heartlessly. “Is that why you’re so eager to be here?”

Jordan tightens his fist. _That has nothing to do with this,_ he wants to say. _This is different._

But when Jordan doesn’t reply, Dejan presses further. “I’m not that high up the hierarchy, but I’ve heard rumours about you, Father.”

“There are many rumours about me,” Jordan mutters softly. “I came up with half of them myself.”

“I don’t think you came up with this one,” Dejan smartly retorts, with a hint of a smirk on his lips.

Jordan raises a judicious eyebrow.

“There’s this man of God, clothed in his priestly robes,” Dejan begins to explain in a sing-song voice, as if Jordan is a small child. “They say that he’s harmless, but there’s more to him than what meets the eye. They say that he’s fallen in love with a sinner,” Dejan inhales sharply. “A sinner who hides behind the name of a saint. A false Saint who acts like God,” he says. “A blasphemy.”

“Huh,” Jordan cracks his neck. “How poetic.”

Dejan shoots him an incredulous look, before looking at his watch. “Shit, backup’s late,” he groans. “We got make this bust ourselves if we wanna catch them in the act.” He looks up at Jordan. “Do you really want to be a part of this?”

“I’ve come this far,” Jordan says. “I don’t do things halfway.”

 

* * *

 

The rest, as they say, is history.

Between Shaq who thought that Dejan was dead, Mo who shouts “Police! You’re under arrest!” and Jordan who comes out of nowhere and tackles Shaq to the ground, it’s a riot. Backup doesn’t even appear until later, not before Adam turns up in his Jaguar, glorious and graceful in his expensive suit and shiny Oxfords. The calm before the storm.

Robbo is nowhere in sight. If Adam is stunned to see Jordan there, he doesn’t show it.

“You’ll never be able to charge me with anything,” says the man who called himself Balloon Party, all haughty and aloof as Mo cuffs him and reads his rights. He doesn’t look anything like a balloon party – he talks and walks like a government official, with a black suit and striped tie, clipped to his steam-pressed white shirt. “Fancy seeing you here,” he tilts his head towards Jordan. “After Stevie, after Nasiriyah. What, you with the cops now?”

Jordan realizes that he knows this man from the past that he tries to forget. Blood curdles in his stomach, his throat parched. It feels like swallowing grit.

“What is he yapping about?” Mo asks.

Adam steps in, with his long elegant strides, before pausing next to Jordan. He clenches and unclenches his jaw, before finally speaking. “You could make the arrest, but the charges won’t stick,” he explains to Mo. “He would be held for an hour, two, tops. His bosses will come for him and it’ll all get swept under the carpet.”

“And give me a good reason why I can’t arrest you now?” Dejan asks in exasperation, aiming the nozzle of his gun at Adam.

“The same reason I won’t kill you even when I know that you and Mo are both _rats_ ,” Adam says dispassionately, despite the gun in his face. “And Mr Balloon Party here,” he nudges, “—is Agent Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain of the CIA.”

 _Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain,_ Jordan grits his teeth. So now he’s working for the CIA, probably offered the job that Jordan has been considered for and declined – _because I want to join the seminary,_ Jordan reminisces and winces at the banality of it all. Ox looks different with longer hair, in that suit that makes him look more refined than the sand-covered Marine Jordan once served with. This is not how Jordan has imagined their reunion to be like.

“Nice of you to introduce me to everyone,” Ox says wryly. “While we’re opening everyone’s can of worms, why don’t you tell them that you’re an MI6 informant, Jude?”

There is a stunned silence between Jordan, Dejan and Mo. “You’re working for the MI6?” Mo asks Adam, before tugging at Ox to stop him from squirming with his handcuffs. “You’re working for the British government?” he stares at Adam in disbelief. “Operating on American soil?”

“That information is not pertinent to the current situation,” Adam maintains imperturbably. “You’re dealing with something that you don’t understand. This is bigger than you, or me, or us.” He turns his head slightly, as if trying to gauge Jordan’s reaction.

Jordan doesn’t give Adam the pleasure of witnessing any.

“And you’re CIA?” Dejan directs his question at Ox, completely astonished. “Yes,” Ox replies aloofly. Jordan bets that this is not what Dejan has expected when he decided to make this bust himself. “But why is the MI6 and CIA involved in drug dealing?”

Adam fully shifts his gaze towards Jordan, now. He knows more than he lets on, and it annoys Jordan to no end. “Our government is not winning the war on drugs, so now they’re using it to fund the war on terror,” Adam explains. “What with the increasing nuclear threats,” he says. “Washington and Whitehall have to work together to keep the peace in these waters. I’m just one of the many messengers between two worlds,” Adam says. He makes it sound so simple, an everyday routine, inconsequential— and Jordan has been none the wiser.

Jordan had been in the Marines, used heavy artillery, weapons that could bring down an entire civilization. To know that their military is sustained using drug money? Adam’s not just a drug lord. He’s not just playing with gangsters and mafias in pointless battles for turfs and territories.

He’s a war lord, playing with governments and stringing them along like puppets.

It’s still a fact that leaves Jordan feeling aghast, a bitter taste in his mouth.

But nothing hurts like finding out that Adam has been playing on both sides of the law.

The MI6, the CIA and the mob?

_This has to be a joke._

 

* * *

 

Dejan and Mo insist that they will still make the arrest, and will deal with the consequences when they bring Ox to the station. Adam doesn’t even appear unsettled to let the million dollar cash that Ox has brought to rot somewhere in the evidence locker, in some police station not far away from here. If anything, he appears incongruently pleased.

Apart from Adam, Jordan realizes that Dejan and Mo also have been living double lives. Their duality forces Jordan reflect on the reality and perceived peacefulness of his life. The things he’s running from. The masks he’s been wearing.

 _‘How long have I been hiding from myself?’_ Jordan asks himself. He’s been asking God the same question many times, but He stubbornly never gives Jordan the answer he wants to hear. He’s knelt at the altar for hours, prayed with the rosary beads between his fingers, stared at the cross during many sleepless nights. The answer still never comes. It’s as if God has deigned to let him suffer silently, making him blind to his own wants and needs.

As Dejan and Mo walk Ox and Shaq to their car, Adam suddenly stops Jordan with a hand on his arm. Jordan doesn’t jolt.

“Do you know him?” Adam asks gently, indicating towards Ox. It’s the first time that he’s said anything directly to Jordan since he shows up at the scene.

“We served together in Iraq. He was the platoon leader for Alpha Company,” Jordan says, failing to meet Adam’s eyes. He concentrates on Dejan and Mo as they enter the car, driving off into the distance. There are only Jordan and Adam now, and a sea of stars above their heads.  He doesn’t even realize that Adam has taken one step closer towards him.

“I thought I knew you, Adam.”

“I’m sorry.”

Jordan wants to ask so much – about the Robertson family, about what happened in England, about Saint Jude, about Whitehall and Bournemouth. How did Adam get involved, how was he recruited? Jordan couldn’t bring himself to say any of those words. Adam has never lied to him – he simply omits the truth, and it breaks Jordan’s heart constantly. But then, Jordan realizes that he’s the one who’s never been able to ask Adam the right questions, so maybe this is on him. He still wants to hurt Adam for the misery that he’s been through, he still wants to scream and shout and lash out, but he doesn’t.

He looks up at the skies. 

_Please, God, forgive me. Forgive me for wanting him._

Jordan could feel Adam’s breath on his skin, the heat emanating from his presence. Adam looks up at him through his eyelashes, taunting Jordan with those devilish eyes, even if that wasn’t Adam’s intention.

And then, Adam says: “I never did give you the address for that key, did I?”

 

* * *

 

The elevator ride is frighteningly silent.

Jordan risks a glance up at Adam when he catches the taller man’s reflection on the brass doors. When the elevator doors slowly open, Jordan lets Adam lead the way. The long walk down the corridor, with the lush carpeting beneath Jordan’s feet – it feels like eternity until they finally reach the apartment door.

The metal key is warm between Jordan’s fingers. He feels the burn of Adam’s stare on his skin, intently studying him while Jordan goes through the mundane motions of opening a locked door. The key slots into the door lock perfectly, and Jordan hears the satisfying click as he turns the lock. He steps into the darkness of the apartment, before Adam follows right behind and switches on the lights. The door clicks shut, with Adam standing between Jordan and the front door, quietly gauging Jordan’s reaction.

The apartment that Adam has bought for him is a fully furnished loft; a safe house in an area of the East Village that Jordan’s never really explored before. It’s spacious – almost half the size of his parish, austere and unlived. As Adam puts it, the apartment is meant to be Jordan’s belated birthday gift – but it is also another token of Adam’s apology, after Jordan’s old apartment was ruined by the Russians.

Adam doesn’t have to go so far – _I would have forgiven you anyway,_ Jordan thinks.

He chuckles wryly when he stands over the glass windows and takes in the view, recognizing the roof of his parish straight away. To the west, he is able to see the park; the exact spot where he plays chess with Trent and his granddad.

“You _have_ been keeping an eye on me. Even during my free time,” Jordan accuses, breaking the silence between them.

“I don’t trust the Russians to leave you alone,” Adam says, taking one step forward. He could have reached Jordan within a heartbeat, but he seems restrained, nervous; unsure.

“They haven’t,” Jordan agrees in a gentle register. “I had to throw them off my scent while I was tailing Dejan. There were at least three of them following me before I managed to lose them.”

Adam raises an eyebrow, looking impressed. “You still managed to lose them, though. But I need to talk to the Russians again. This wasn’t part of the deal. I specifically told them not to harm you.”

“Adam, I can look after myself.”

“You know, I wasn’t joking when I asked if you wanted to be my bodyguard,” Adam says. “You miss this. You miss not being in the field. You miss not having someone to protect.”

 _I miss you,_ Jordan wants to say. But he doesn’t. “You have Robbo,” he says instead.

“He’s not my bodyguard. I don’t pay him enough for that,” Adam replies. “He’s my second-in-command and he does what he wants—,” Adam explains, “—but most of all, he’s his own man.”

“And I’m your rent-boy,” Jordan mutters under his breath. Adam hears him anyway.

“You said that,” he says, the corners of his lips upturned into a lazy smirk. “I didn’t.”

Jordan moves towards the middle of the loft, the centrepiece of the apartment – a king-sized bed dressed in Egyptian cotton and more pillows than he has ever owned. He runs his fingers along the sheets, before perching cautiously on the edge of the king-sized bed. He sinks into the mattress with a sigh. If he gets any more comfortable than this, the bed may just swallow him whole and he would never wake up.

“You were offered a CIA job but you didn’t take it,” Adam says, moving closer towards him now. “Why?”

“I’m a soldier, not a spy. I can’t lie through my teeth to save a life,” Jordan sighs, scrunching his forehead. Jordan looks in puzzlement at Adam as the older man lets out a low, wry chuckle. “How did you know about the CIA job?”

“I didn’t,” Adam shakes his head. “Not until today. Not until Ox showed up. And Robbo’s a damned good hacker, we would’ve known. Meanwhile, Ox gets your job—,” he scrunches his nose, “—and you’re living in this humdrum shit of a life.”

“It’s not,” Jordan retorts petulantly, although he isn’t sure of his own argument anymore. “I survived for a purpose. To serve God.”

“Sure,” Adam rolls his eyes. “After all the shit you’ve seen.”

“You weren’t there,” Jordan argues vehemently.

“No, I wasn’t,” Adam concurs a bit too easily. “I was busy with my own little war games on my turf.”

“You’re going to die, Adam.”

“We’re _all_ going to die,” Adam counters effortlessly.

“You know what I mean,” Jordan rubs his eyes tiredly, pinching the ridge of his nose. “Don’t be coy.”

“If you were by my side,” Adam raises one eyebrow slyly, “—maybe I won’t die so quickly. What was it that Morrissey said?” he asks. “To die by your side is a heavenly way to die?”

Jordan could almost hear Morrissey’s voice singing faintly in the background, as soon as Adam monotonously reads out the line. “Fuck you,” he replies insouciantly. 

“That’s the Jordan that I know,” Adam says, a genuine smile touching his lips, before it fades away into a grim line. “You know you’re going to get a call, right? It will be someone from the CIA, MI6, asking if you want to work for them. My handler will harangue me about you,” Adam says, standing over him like some kind of angel, blocking out the main light from the tall lamp from the corner of the room, a halo surrounding him. “What will you say if the MI6 were to contact you?”

“I’ll tell them what I’ve told all of them each time,” Jordan says. “Milner asked me to be an informant for the cops too.”

“I know.”

Why isn’t Jordan surprised? Is there anything that Adam doesn’t know? “Did you know I was going to say no?”

“I thought you were going to say yes,” Adam replies sheepishly. Jordan attempts to suppress a smile. Adam doesn’t know _everything,_ then.

“I didn’t think anyone would still be interested in me,” Jordan complains. He’d meant it as the cops, the CIA, his likely government-related, military-based, intelligence-agency employers. “I’m too old for this shit, with one working leg, and can’t they see that I’m a fucking priest?”

“Hell, Jordan,” Adam chuckles wryly. “Who wouldn’t be interested in you? Have you seen how people look at you?”

 _I’m not blind,_ Jordan wants to say, but he bites his tongue to stop himself. “How do _you_ look at me?” he asks, instead. Because it’s the only question that matters.

A pause. Adam is struggling to find the right words to say. Jordan could hear him thinking from miles away, his expression pensive.

“Let’s just say that I don’t care for genders, but I do care for the person,” Adam replies. “And I care about you. Whether with dog-tags or dog-collars,” he says. Jordan’s fingers automatically jerks up to his dog-collar, touching the plastic stripe on his neck.

Adam takes it as a sign for him to take a seat beside Jordan, tentative, shifting his weight on the mattress. “Who’s Stevie?” he asks softly. Jordan knows this question would come eventually. He’s surprised that Adam has taken this long to ask. “Sergeant Gerrard was my Team Leader,” Jordan replies. “A damned good one, too.”

“Where is he now?”

“He died when that Humvee blew up.”

“You loved him,” Adam says, not unkindly.

Jordan doesn’t know if he loves Stevie in that way or not. It will never reach the same way that he ever feels for Adam, whatever this feeling is. Nothing’s ever been said, nothing’s ever been done. Jordan wonders what could have been if they’d both survived the IED blast. Would he still be a coward?

It doesn’t occur to him until now that he sees plenty of Adam in Stevie– they look nothing alike, but they share the same qualities. Perseverance, wit, calmness— and a lot of heart. Maybe it’s what draws him to Stevie the most, among all the other Marines that he’d befriended and commanded – his anchor in the seas of sand dunes and berms, between showers of mortar fire and unexploding bombs in the gardens.

“Nothing happened between us, Adam.”

“But you wished something did.”

“Doesn’t alter the fact that we’re the ones that are here now.”

Between Pendleton and Mathilda, Oceanside and Al-Muwaffiqiyah, a priest and a saint, Jordan and Adam. They’re worlds apart.

_And yet, we’re both sinners._

“How about that guy at the restaurant?” Jordan asks. “The one you were with before I came through the door?”

“Are you jealous, Father?”

“Colour me curious.”

“He’s my lover, and he’s amazing in bed,” Adam pretends to swoon dramatically, before reaching over to clasp Jordan’s hands. “I’m just kidding, Jordan. That was my MI6 handler. He would love to meet you again,” he jokes.

“Is he James Bond?” Jordan asks. “Are you?”

“Adam Lallana doesn’t quite have the same ring to James Bond, does it?” Adam smiles softly.

“What’s the equivalent of a Bond girl in this story? A Lallana lad?” Jordan asks, attempting humour to diffuse the situation. He fails miserably.

Adam’s fingers are warm, his skin smooth and riddled with goosebumps. Jordan could feel Adam’s heartbeat fluttering underneath his fingertips. “Should I be penitent, Father?” he asks. “Have I ticked all seven of your deadly sins? Am I damned for eternity?”

 _No,_ Jordan wants to say. He knows that the man in front of him is dangerous. Is he evil? Jordan doesn’t know. Maybe he has to figure this out with Adam, together. Maybe it will make him sleep better at night if he knows that Adam is safe.

Or if Adam is saved – either from the world, or from himself.

_It’s me who’s eternally damned, and I’m not afraid anymore._

 

* * *

 

Adam is a beautiful disaster.  Jordan has heard the phrase many times, but has never truly appreciated it until a real life specimen walks right into his face. Jordan has seen many beautiful things in his life, but they were not a disaster. Not like Adam. 

He is soft and intense all at the same time. His eyes could be chocolate-brown or gold or pitch-black and Jordan could never say which one at any given time – it’s a river stream, his life in a million coffee cups, the night skies, the galaxies; a kaleidoscope. At this moment they’re dark brown with golden speckles, clashing against the darkness of his eyelashes. He has changed so much, but his eyes, the tension in his sharp jaw – they’re still quintessentially Adam, his growls and the tilt of his head, the considerate purse of his lips.

He half expects dark wings to unfurl from between Adam’s shoulder blades, and Jordan nearly reaches for his rosary beads to repent, for he has fallen in love with the human incarnation of the Devil himself.

Jordan has never felt actual affection or love for somebody until his heart aches this way. Not until Adam – not since Adam. He’s had friends, colleagues, acquaintances, but there was no actual devotion or emotional attachment as strong as what he’s developed with Adam. Is this why God has sent Adam back to him? To torment him, to make him question all the beliefs he has held for most of his life?

It’s not romantic – it’s not just lust. Jordan doesn’t know romance, wouldn’t even recognize it if someone dangles it in front of his nose like a juicy bone in front of a ravenous dog. But he at least knows that this is true love in its purest form, then— and trust, and friendship – even in death.

He wonders if this is what he’s been missing all this time—what he’s been looking for when he went travelling all the way to get shipped in the middle of the desert, to get shot at, to nearly die. What he’s found, in this man sitting merely inches from Jordan.

“Tell me what to do, Adam,” Jordan whispers breathlessly. 

Adam’s reply is like the thunderous skies, coursing through his veins like a sacred commandment.

“I’m not God.”

He’s wrong. Jordan easily could worship Adam as much as he worships God.

“Just this once,” Jordan pleads. 

Adam is looking at him as though he wants to devour Jordan. He doesn’t realize how long Adam’s eyelashes are until now, when he’s this close. He doesn’t voice his wants, but his eyes fall to the stripe on Jordan’s throat.

Jordan tugs at the dog collar, almost brandished to his skin – and he could hear Adam’s soft gasp when he finally pulls it out. Jordan places the plastic collar in Adam’s hands. He thinks it could have melted away, but it doesn’t. “What next, Adam?”

“It’s your call, Jordan.”  

“What next, Adam?” Jordan repeats, insistent.

Adam abruptly stands up to leave, but Jordan catches Adam’s arm to stop him.  “Don’t,” Adam says. He’s back to being his nine-year-old self again, when he was being chased by Sister Mary, getting beaten up by cruel kids who don’t understand how it’s like to be different. All of Adam’s suave confidence from before— they’ve fractured completely, and it is Jordan who has to pick up the pieces.

“Look at me, Adam. What do you want from me?”

“Nothing.”

_Liar._

“What do you want from me, Adam? You don’t get to pull this shit with me, you understand?” Jordan takes a step back, but halts when Adam begins to speak again.

It’s just one word:

_“Everything.”_

“Thank you,” Jordan says, barely a whisper. “Thank you for being honest with me, for once.”

Adam looks down at the floor, past Jordan’s shoulder, the buttons of Jordan’s shirt—anywhere but Jordan’s face. It’s a confession that has been bubbling under the lid for so long it is threatening to spill, to flood Jordan with the suddenness and the desperation.

“I want you. So fucking much,” he tells Jordan. “But I know I could never have you. You’re so close. And yet so far.” His voice is a broken whisper, but the echo resonates loudly in Jordan’s brain, amplified by each beat of his racing heart. “Stay with me,” Adam pleads. He looks lost. “Don’t leave. Don’t ever leave me again.”

“I’m here now,” Jordan says. He reaches up to touch Adam’s face. He’s held Adam’s face against his palms so many times, when they were younger – but this time it’s a revelation.

“I miss you,” Adam whispers, before reaching up to wipe a tear that Jordan doesn’t even realize has trickled down his cheek, and tiptoes to press his forehead against Jordan’s.

“I miss you too,” Jordan replies, and he cherishes the feeling of warm breath against his skin, and fuck, Adam’s crying too. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted – no, needed someone as much I as need you,” he tells Jordan.

_I love him, God. Forgive me for loving him. Please forgive me, Lord._

“I’m here now. Take what you want,” Jordan offers. His heart, his body, his soul. “I’m here now.”

It feels like it’s been too long overdue, so when Adam finally presses his lips against Jordan’s, he lets out a gasp – of need, of want, of desire. Adam kisses him like he’s running out of time, but also as if he’s trying to make up for all the time he’s lost. It is desperate, frantic, searching. He tastes like coffee and cigarettes and peppermint, and Jordan realizes that this is the same Adam he has come to know and love, through and through. He tilts his head and changes the angle, deepening the kiss as Jordan cards his fingers in Adam’s hair.

“Sorry,” Adam sighs breathlessly against Jordan’s lips, after he breaks the kiss. “Feels like I’ve waited decades just to do that,” he says, before Jordan kisses him again. Adam kneels in front of Jordan and clutches his hands, kisses each knuckle gingerly as if they are made of porcelain, as if they are going to break if he handles them any rougher.

“I love you,” Adam says. “I love you.”

And Jordan couldn’t help letting out the quake of sobs that has been building inside of him, because he has struggled with his own feelings for so long, but has no courage to say it out loud. There’s no reason why he should be fearful now, when he has Adam in front of him, the one who has opened up to him— St Jude or  Adam – Jordan loves him despite the different facades, because he knows that Adam will only reveal his true self when he’s with him. And Jordan will love him in any shape of form, he loves Adam.

“I love you too,” Jordan tells him, and Adam shushes Jordan by swallowing each sob with a thousand kisses.

 

* * *

 

In the morning sunlight, Adam seems peaceful. It occurred to Jordan that he has never seen Adam like this. He has never witnessed the rise and fall of Adam’s chest as he breathes; the flutter of Adam’s eyelashes against his cheeks as he sleeps; the crimson flush of his skin.

“You’re still here,” Adam mumbles.

“I am,” Jordan nods.

“I thought it was a dream.”

Jordan lifts Adam’s face with his thumb and forefinger, gently, delicately, and kisses him. Adam responds by tracing the scars on Jordan’s back, curling to the front, across his abdomen, the juncture between his thighs. He runs his fingertips down Jordan’s left thigh, his knee, stopping just above his stump. Jordan takes a sharp breath.

“You’re beautiful, Jordan,” Adam tells him. “I don’t care about your scars,” he says, before proceeding to kiss each one, working his way down the lengthy scar that goes down Jordan’s left leg. He presses butterfly kisses on both of Jordan’s knees, and a gentle one atop his scarred stump. “Heaven resides in every line of your body,” he whispers, “—and I would readily worship you as you worship your God.”

 _I don’t want to be worshipped,_ Jordan thinks. _I want to be loved._

Adam loves him by whispering prayers into Jordan’s skin, and when words aren’t enough, he uses his hands – and even when his touch isn’t enough, Adam uses his lips. Jordan isn’t ashamed of how much he wants to devour Adam, or be devoured. 

Jordan lives and dies, and lives again.

 

* * *

 

“Have you been to Bournemouth?”

Jordan shakes his head. “Not physically, no,” he replies monotonously, earning him a gentle slap on the arm by Adam.

“Have you been to Sunderland, Hendo?”

Jordan gazes fondly at Adam, reaching out as he traces Adam’s ribcage, the ink etched into his skin, forming the image of a dark angel. “No, not Sunderland either.”

“I’ll take you there,” Adam promises earnestly. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

 

* * *

 

“Is this your way of saying fuck you to God, Adam?” Jordan asks, as he sits by the giant windows of his apartment, smiling to himself. Adam steps out of bed to stand behind him, both looking ahead outside the window, admiring the view across the skyline. They could barely make out the cross on the rooftop of Jordan’s parish from this distance, but Jordan knows that it’s there.

Adam rests his head upon Jordan’s bare shoulder. He could feel Adam smiling against his skin, before pressing a kiss above Jordan’s faded _Semper Fidelis_ tattoo.

“You could say that,” Adam says, tangling his fingers in the metal chain of Jordan’s dog-tags. “I won this round against Him,” he says. “I have you.”

 

* * *

 

It feels strange without the collar around his neck, not when he’s in the parish, sitting in front of Klopp in his office. He is throwing judgmental looks at the leather biker jacket, grey waistcoat and black tie – an immaculately tailored suit that clings to Jordan obscenely. “Looks like he’s not only stolen you from my church,” Klopp says. “He’s dressed you up too, like a doll.”

“We’re talking about a man who has committed patricide, and the thing you care about is my sartorial decisions,” Jordan retorts.

“You’ve lost your way, Jordan.”

Jordan shakes his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever found the right way anyway, Klopp,” he says.

“How about Sharon? And Natalie? What would they say?” Klopp cries out in horror.

“They had their objections,” Jordan explains. “But Adam was there, and they understood.”

“Pride and lust and greed won’t get you anywhere, Jordan.”

“No,” Jordan agrees. “You’re right. But love is love, and that is not a sin,” Jordan counters, before making his way to leave. Before he steps out, he takes one last look at the giant crucifix on the wall, with the wax statue staring dumbly back at him.

 _You could have stopped me_ , Jordan thinks, and realizes that he feels no remorse for doing this at all.

He feels liberated.

_Free._

 

* * *

 

Adam is waiting outside the parish, leaning idly against the door of his Jaguar, unflustered and immaculate. “How did it go?”

“As good as it could be, I suppose.”

“Just got a phone call from Robbo,” Adam informs Jordan, before opening the passenger seat door for him. “They’ve let Ox go. The good news is—,” he says before entering the car, “Dejan and Mo have been reinstated into the police forces. They don’t have to live two lives anymore.”

Jordan puts on his seat belt, making sure that it doesn’t catch on the gun in his holster. “Is there another flip side to this good news?”

“It means that Van Dijk and Milner will send more rats into my organization to bring me down,” Adam surmises, before looking at Jordan oddly. “Why did you decide to join me, Hendo?”

Jordan’s answer is simple. “I can look after myself, but someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

Adam bursts into laughter. “I didn’t expect this at all,” he says. “I came back to New York for many things, but I didn’t expect this at all.”

“What, you mean becoming your bodyguard? Or that I’ve given up God for you?”

“No,” Adam shakes his head, with that sweet, _sweet_ smile still on his face. “I didn’t expect that your God would even be so kind as to let me have you,” he says. “I didn’t expect you, Hendo. And I love you.”

Adam hasn’t started the engine, and Jordan is glad. He leans across the gearstick and grabs the lapel of Adam’s coat, pulling until Adam is almost fully on top of him. Adam cradles Jordan’s face with his leather-gloved hands, before moving across the stick and straddles Jordan in his seat, hovering over Jordan on his knees. He leans down and nuzzles their foreheads together, noses bumping against each other, but they’re not quite kissing. For a brief moment their lips finally meet, and when Adam breathes into Jordan, it feels like a lease of new life.

He won’t run away, or keeps hiding from himself any longer.

Not when he has Adam.

And that, God, is enough.

 

* * *

fin

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry if this is a flop.


End file.
